Measured in Feet
by Dimwit Cynic
Summary: A miscellaneous collection of John/Sherlock drawls; anything from angst to fluff to general hysteria with varying ratings. Updated with the consistency of Mycroft's dieting plans.
1. Unspoken

**A/N:** I got into Sherlock recently, and I have a lot of directionless feels about it. Therefore: this story. This is a bit of a first stab at these guys, but I hope I served them well. Enjoy!

**Word Count: **731

**Pairing(s): **John/Sherlock

**Warning(s): **shameless fluff

* * *

><p><strong>Unspoken<strong>

* * *

><p>When Sherlock and John began their relationship, it was an unspoken thing. There was not the brilliant, drawn out confession that John had expected. There was no shouting or doubt, as Sherlock had. One morning they'd gone to part ways for the day and John had just kissed him goodbye, not even thinking about it, just kissed him as if they did this every morning. Sherlock hadn't said a word. When John came home with an apology on his lips Sherlock had hugged him, kissed him, told him, "Welcome home," and that had been the end of the discussion that they never had.<p>

Not many things changed due to the shift in their relationship. The Work still came first, and Sherlock continued to treat John as he always did, dragging him relentlessly across the city and constantly ordering him around. John continued to blog about it and tell Sherlock just when and why he was being an idiot. Sherlock had expected the changes to be anticlimactic at first – the scarce data he had on the subject had come from his mother, a lost cause and a dreadful marriage to a man she didn't love with children she didn't like; highschool, almost all useless and mostly deleted; and movies. Movies had led him to believe that, once in a relationship, John would suddenly become a doting young housewife who would kiss him good morning and want to hold his hand all the time and kiss him in public. John expected none of that, except for occasionally the cuddles if neither of them were working, and preferred to wake Sherlock up as he usually did – by shoving him off the couch. There weren't sweet nothings every day, or even most days, and they didn't feel it was necessary to start calling each other boyfriend-and-boyfriend. They eventually told each other how they felt in detail, how they loved every inch of one another, but it had been unspoken all the time and _boyfriend_ sounded decidedly not-Sherlock.

There were some changes, though.

In the obvious state, John stopped pursuing women. Irritatingly, women started pursing him a lot more often when John wasn't displaying interest and John was stuck with the unhappy job of telling each of these women that he wasn't interested. At least now, he had a good excuse.

John didn't start calling himself gay, mostly because he wasn't. He would have loved Sherlock if he'd been a woman as much as he loved him as a man, or any variable in-between of those genders. Still, when asked if he was, John didn't deny it. If loving Sherlock made him gay, then gay he was.

Sherlock didn't feel it was necessary to announce that they were now of romantic and sexual relations, partially because it was none of their business and he didn't care what people thought but mostly because everyone already assumed they were anyway. If asked, they simply confirmed and went on with things without confrontation.

They touched each other more, which was probably the most obvious change. For all that they didn't change their mental behavior, their physical behavior was altered beyond repair whenever they weren't in the attention of The Public. Lestrade found himself subjected to absurd amounts of supposed-to-be-discreet-but-isn't PDA when he was alone in a room with them, because apparently he didn't actually count as The Public. Even in the attention of The Public, who John claimed to be so concerned about, there were little things – brushes of the fingertips, bumping hips and feet, secret smiles and gazes held longer than was usual before. Admittedly, this added up to a lot of staring, since their "usual before" was already longer than it should have been.

They had sex.

On an everyday basis, however, things were just as they had always been. They bickered on, John found body parts in the fridge, Sherlock complained about John's job, they fought crime and jumped on rooftops. John still drank tea and ate jam, Sherlock continued to make rude jokes about Anderson and John continued to hide his laughter. Sherlock didn't eat enough and would occasionally collapse from exhaustion, and John would always be there to put a blanket on him when he did. Sherlock still vandalized the apartment and John still got worked up and stormed out on an almost weekly basis.

Things continued as usual: atypical, nameless, and impractical.

Forever.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Reviews are lovely, appreciated, and not at all an obligation.<em>**


	2. Pros, Cons, and Adultry

**A/N: **Enjoy.

**Word Count: **388

**Pairing(s): **John/Sherlock

**Warning(s): **shameless fluff, mentions of sex

* * *

><p><strong>Pros, Cons, and <strong>**Adultry**

* * *

><p>First kiss, first scramble, first feel up, first shag, first awkward after-glow. It had gone by all in a day and now John's head was spinning trying to sort it out within himself in the first morning-after.<p>

Things to consider:

Pro: He loved this man. Con: This meant he was gay. Pro: Nobody gave a shit and he wouldn't even have to come out because everyone already assumed.

Pro: This was the most genius man alive. Con: He was a self-proclaimed sociopath.

Pro: This was quite possibly the most attractive man in London. Con: He was taller than him. Pro: John had topped anyway.

Pro:

"John, please. Please tell me that you're not making a pros and cons list in your head again. It's annoying enough when it's not about my virginity."

John sputtered.

Pro: He'd taken this man's virginity. Con: He'd taken this man's virginity.

Sherlock's snorted and flailed one naked arm to slap across John's forehead. "You're doing it again," he accused.

"Jesus, Sherlock, I didn't know," John said hurriedly, flushed. Sherlock simply smiled at him and leaned over to lay a lazy kiss on his lips.

"I know," Sherlock mused. His voice rumbled with mirth. "I didn't want you to know. You'd have been too gentle with me."

John almost makes a pro of Sherlock liking it rough but decided that pros and cons lists were probably left off the table for now if he wanted this to happen again anytime soon. Sherlock, as if reading his mind, smirked at him.

After a moment, John finds himself giggling.

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"You're an adulterer, Sherlock," he said, saying adulterer as giddily as an eight year old might say Santa. "You're cheating on your Work."

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment before rolling his eyes. "Oh, don't worry about that. My Work and I have an open marriage, and I'm fairly sure it's already had a threesome of sorts with the both of us by now anyway."

"Touche," John said, nodding seriously.

It's not long before they're both in fits of giggles again, falling all over one another until eventually they decide to get out of bed and make coffee. Then, upon the sight of each other naked again, deciding against it and climbing back in.

Mornings with Sherlock, John decided, were another Pro.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Reviews are lovely, appreciated, and nonobligatory. xx -DC <em>**


	3. Out

**A/N: **This one's a bit spontaneous and weird; I'm not sure if I like it. Whatever, enjoy?

**Word Count: **675

**Pairing(s): **Johnlock

**Warning(s):** somewhat shameless fluff, rediculouslyoblivious!John, mentions of sex I guess?

* * *

><p><strong>Out<strong>

* * *

><p>"Go out with me."<p>

John startled, looking up from his book with eyebrows arched. He wasn't sure how late it was – it wasn't unusual for him to accidently slip into Sherlock's sleeping habits of not sleeping at all and he was quite engrossed in his book – but he knew that it was definitely the middle of the night. That, accompanied by the fact that they didn't have a case right now, or at least not one that required legwork as apparently the locked-room case was "so painfully obvious it does not warrant explanation or investigation, oh, just wait until someone starts to smell him, they'll smell him" and the like made the idea of leaving the house right then sound absurd.

He said so, shaking his head, but still he put his book down in his lap. Sherlock stared at him from the couch opposite, frowning. "Absurd?" he repeated, sounding dubious. "I wouldn't think the notion would turn you off _that_ terribly much, John. We are quite close."

John frowned at this, caught off guard. "Whatthefuck?" he inquired in the most genuine way one could utter those words. Sherlock didn't react, simply staring at him, and it became quite clear that John didn't have any idea what he was going on about. Groaning and rubbing his eyes he got to his feet. "Fine, where are we bloody running off to this time? If it requires doing anything remotely Spiderman-like I'm going to need some tea first."

"Ah, is that what you would expect us to be doing?" Sherlock stood, peering down at him as if he were the a strange creature he'd never seen before when, in fact, he saw John every day and had seen him in almost every condition worth speaking of. John resisted the urge to scowl; sometimes the height difference got to him.

"Well, we certainly wouldn't be thinking of doing anything _sane_, would we?" he asked, trying his best to smile lightheartedly under the stare until he found that he couldn't anymore. His eyebrows scrunched. "What?"

Sherlock's lips pursed, looking somewhat miffed. "There's no case today, John."

John hesitated. "No case?" he asked. He felt dumb for being so baffled.

"No case, John."

"What, then?"

Sherlock sighed in a deeply mourning way that can only be faked by the best of the best and, with a surprising lack of grace, tangled his hands in John's hair and yanked him into a bruising kiss. John gasped, startled, and was more than surprised to find Sherlock taking that opportunity and deepening the kiss before John could even comprehend that that's what they were doing.

What he was doing. Being kissed by Sherlock Holmes.

He was more than aware that the nature of this fact should have alarmed him; kissing a man, kissing an admittedly sociopathic man, kissing an admittedly sociopathic man who was his flat mate, kissing an admittedly sociopathic man who was his flat mate and his best mate, kissing and feeling it bruise his lips and realizing he'd never been kissed so demandingly. Before John could comprehend just how he was reacting to this Sherlock pulled away.

The detective's face was flush and he was breathing hard, as if he had just run a mile rather than assaulted his only friend's mouth. Sherlock smiled grimly, gray eyes darting over his face in the clear deduction way. "I've cleared up my intentions, then," said Sherlock, and nodded. Then, after John's expression remained blank, he added, "Sorry."

John stared at him. He stared at him for what felt like a very long time even if it were only seconds, expression blank, eyes locked on Sherlock's. Then John made a noise quite unlike him, almost a groan of irritation, almost a moan of pleasure, and he grabbed Sherlock by his coat collar. "You choose _that_ to apologize for, you stupid bloke?" he growled, and before Sherlock could respond John had declared a quite dramatic "Fuck all!" and had him pinned on the couch within seconds.

Sherlock hummed in quiet victory. Fuck all, indeed.


	4. Cracks in the Marble

**A/N: So I wrote this at two in the morning. Forgive me, no amount of editing could make this less bizarre but no amount of bizarre could make me not entirely too tempted to post it. Enjoy.**

**Word Count: 960+**

**Pairing(s): sortofplatonic!John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): almost-fluff, nudity, self harm (undetailed), and general weirdness.**

* * *

><p><strong>Cracks in the Marble<strong>

* * *

><p>The silence was something that Sherlock had warned him about. For days on end, maybe even weeks, Sherlock was known to simply stop talking. At one point it had become so bad that, when called for a case, Sherlock had written his deductions on his arms and, when he'd run out of room, on Lestrade's. After initially living through it, nobody ever stopped to question this behavior, simply marking it off as <em>Oh, Sherlock<em> and calling it a night.

John, however, lived with the man and although he was no consulting detective, John figured it out before even Sherlock did.

The first time it happened had been after a particularly long case and Sherlock hadn't spoken a word for almost twenty-four hours. He had himself draped across the couch, silently contemplating nothing at all, when John walked in with two cups of tea and sandwiches. "You're hungry," John said after Sherlock had stared at him for a while and, after devouring the first sandwich and then a second and a third, Sherlock realized quite quickly that, oh, yes, that had been it after all.

The silent spells thus became shorter and shorter. It was, John thought, much like taking care of a very large infant except that, instead of wailing incoherently, Sherlock simply stopped talking and stared at you helplessly. Some days, he was exhausted to the point where he couldn't feel the need to sleep and John had to guide him (or, on occasion, man handle him) into his bed; others, Sherlock would be having a massive migraine and not seem to even fathom its existence until John intervened, armed with the correct dose of pills and a comforting pat on the back. Some days, the needs were more abstract, and the silence would last for days before John figured it out – Sherlock didn't realize, but some days he just needed to be simultaneously held and left alone and would curl in his bed and just say nothing; on these days, John would climb in after him, tie a blindfold around his eyes, and pulled the detective against him for however long he needed him to. Sherlock never cried, but those days were as close as he ever came. Other days, Sherlock would come to John an endlessness in his eyes and John would comply immediately, taking Sherlock's hand and allowing himself to be dragged out of the apartment on any whim; more often than not, it was just to go shrieking through the streets of London, nearly getting hit by buses and trampling several pedestrians but, none the less, clearing Sherlock's head and leaving John feeling entirely too breathlessly giddy. The strangest days were the tired ones, quiet ones that went entirely unmentioned, where Sherlock would climb into John's bed in the middle of the night and they would simply lay together, never touching each other, just staring and watching and, John suspected, privately confirming the existence of the other until eventually Sherlock would nod, whisper, "Brilliant," and slip out of the room again. One way or another, the silence was always broken.

What Sherlock did to quell himself before John moved in, John had no idea. Probably, he did nothing.

This day was one of those days. Sherlock had been silent for nearly seven hours, and despite the doctor's contemplative efforts he couldn't sense what was wrong with him. He never tried until he felt that he _knew_, too scared of pushing Sherlock farther away, as if the detective may flip and spiral straight over the metaphorical edge if pushed in the wrong direction. The act that revealed the detective was startling, although John did his best not to show it, simply looking up at him over his tea and trying his best not to let his ears burn too red.

Sherlock had walked into the kitchen completely naked, fists clenched at his sides, hair wet from his morning shower. Coming from anyone else, John would have felt invaded upon, even sort of molested, but somehow there was nothing sexual in the way Sherlock stood in front of him. Shrugging the initial shock of nudity off his shoulders John put his tea down and got to his feet, gaze never leaving Sherlock's face until, by some unspoken oath, John had permission to let his eyes wander.

The basic state of Sherlock's body did not surprise him. He was pale, stunningly so, and thin to the point where John thought he could count his ribs even from this distance, although without the blockage of clothes it was clear that the detective was also very fit. His collar bones jutted out in an almost appealing way; Sherlock's spidery hands shift to rest on his narrow hips and John's eyes wander there automatically, and although he tries, John looks Everywhere. There are things John did not anticipate, but he is not surprised by. There are scars covering Sherlock's body, new and old. Some are clearly from his adventures while others are even more clearly self-inflicted, drawing over his biceps and thighs in crudely intricate patterns. The bruises that cover him, some dark and fresh and others faded and retreated, over him in the most careless of places, on elbows and hips and shoulders and abdomens.

John looks up to meet Sherlock's eyes again, his mind scrambling madly for words. He wants to ask him why he felt this was necessary; he wants to ask him why he seems so uncomfortable in his own skin; he wants to demand the story between the self inflicted scars, if they came Before or After him and if the cause was still breathing. He wants to touch him, maybe sexually and maybe not, but gently; he wants to hold him close and feel his jutting bones against his body, feel his chest rise and fall with boring breath; he wants to kiss the ancient, fading lines across his skin. John wants to show Sherlock how he feels, even if he's not sure himself; John wants to laugh and cry and maybe break something.

Because John loves Sherlock, he just stands there on the opposite side of the room and he whispers the only thing he can think to whisper. "You're a work of art."

Sherlock blinks and draws into himself a little, Adam's apple bobbing slightly, and John watches as his fingers brush the scars over his thighs. And then – John sighs with relief – Sherlock replies, "Not a good one."

"It's just as well," John says. He takes a blanket from the chair and, gently, drapes it around Sherlock. "Nobody ever treasured a perfect painting." And then, all out of poetic things to say, John opens his arms and just holds Sherlock there, feeling very strongly that, if he were to let go, they'd both simply float away.

It will be a while.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Reviews would be lovely.<em>**


	5. Kink

**A/N: Embarrassingly, I actually wrote this during French class, and I'm fairly sure the guy behind me read the first few senetences over my shoulder before I noticed... whoops. Hope you guys enjoy this more than he did.**

**Word Count: 341**

**Paring(s): Johnlock **

**Warning(s): Extensive discussions of sex and kinks, Lestrade, and a brief mention of drugs, I guess.**

* * *

><p><strong>Captain Kink<strong>

* * *

><p>Sherlock had a military fetish.<p>

It wasn't something that Sherlock considered important, being as he was mostly aromantic and uninterested in something as messy as sex, and he didn't think of it enough to warrant informing John. He wasn't even full aware it was a kink at all. However, it became rather apparent to both of them after a certain trip to Baskerville, in which the idea of being platonic had been booted out the window faster than Sherlock could say, "Ok, that's it, take off my pants."

And, for that matter, apparent to one Gregory Lestrade, who found it generally impossible to look at either of them with a straight face after the discovery. Blocking out the memory of Sherlock moaning _Captain_ from behind John's hotel room door proved to be a challenge.

John, on the other hand, had a rather fondness for handcuffs.

Sherlock found this one out quite quickly after a particular escapade, and while sore wrists and anger sex could not make up for the three years of faking his death, it certainly couldn't hurt.

Gregory Lestrade, unfortunately, knew about this too, though thankfully this time only because John had attempted to return the handcuffs after Sherlock had informed him that he'd picked them off the DI. Now, Greg was no Holmes, but the look on John's face gave him a rather vivid idea of just exactly where those cuffs had been. John had been told to keep them and he had.

More than anything, though, John and Sherlock had a fetish simply for each other.

At heart, though they both thrived on the dangers of life and the thrill of adventures, were lovers at heart when it came to activities between the sheets. Most nights they chose to make love simply and slowly, not bothering to dress it up as something it wasn't, and fell asleep at night feeling content with quiet, vanilla sex and the comfort of being in each other's arms.

Mrs. Hudson was glad. Earmuffs and herbal soothers only blocked out so much.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Reviews are kind of my fetish, guys.<em>**


	6. Props

**A/N: Posted as a sort-of apology in advance for the post after this one, which I'll be posting in a matter of minutes despite the inevitable imbox spam.**

**Word Count: 250+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): shameless fluff**

* * *

><p><strong>Props<strong>

* * *

><p>They had been laying there, just laying there, on the rooftop when John suddenly popped the question:<p>

"Would you marry me?"

Sherlock was, for once, shocked, though he didn't show it. In fact, he didn't move at all, eyes still trained on the sky.

"I mean, I'm not... I don't mean right now. I know you're not, I mean, hypothetically... the marrying type, you don't..." John sighed. "I'm not proposing."

Sherlock twisted his head to look at the doctor; John did the same, ears burning with embarrassed blush under Sherlock's thoughtful gaze.

"Why not?"

John blinked. "What?"

"Why aren't you proposing?"

Suspecting a trick, John's eyes narrowed, but Sherlock seemed nothing but genuine. John's faltered.

"I don't know," John said slowly. "It's not really the place."

"It's a rooftop," said Sherlock. "There are stars."

"I'm not really sure if it's legal."

"Doesn't matter. Neither are a lot of things we do."

"I don't have a ring."

"I don't need a ring."

John can feel his heart pounding in his chest. Suddenly he is hyper aware of how stunning Sherlock looks in the moonlight.

"I didn't think you would want to," John whispered, averting his gaze. He knows how pathetic he must look, blushing and awkward and uncertain. Sherlock reaches forward and pulls the doctor to face him, smiling gently.

"How would you know if you never asked?"

"I just did, didn't I?"asked Watson, almost defensively.

Sherlock smiled.

There is no announcement, only Mrs. Hudson humphing about with a pleased smile and a, "Well, it's about time!"


	7. In Which Sherlock's Penis is Functional

**A/N: Heed warnings + enjoy.**

**Word Count: 2,200+ - it's a long'un.**

**Paring(s): John/Sherlock, brief mentions of Mycroft liking boys.**

**Warning(s): filed under Things I Write on My iPhone at Three In the Morning, sex, wanking, nudity, general inappropriate behavior, and language, I guess. Don't know how this would be offensive, but it also discusses porn, romance novels, and cross dressing.** **Also, Sherlock is an idiot.**

* * *

><p><strong>In Which Sherlock's Penis is Functional<strong>

* * *

><p>It wasn't just physical attraction. It wasn't just hormones. Sherlock liked John as a person, liked him for his personality and his good nature and his endless patience and his courageousness and his loyalty.<p>

This was not to say that Sherlock wasn't attracted to John on a base level. He was. Oh, God, he was.

Thus was why Sherlock found himself standing in the wake of a slightly ajar bedroom door, staring and choking and getting hard in places that (and he admits this without shame) he hasn't been in months. Sherlock knows that what he's doing is Not Good, and that John would slug him if he knew he was watching him change. And he'd probably do more than that if he knew that, as John shimmied his jeans off, Sherlock's hand was sliding into his own pants, not even really thinking as he did it. And John would probably strangle him (bad, sorta hot) if he knew he had to muffle a moan when John's boxers follow the pants, and maybe move out (worse, broken heart ineffable) if he knew the dorky, weirdly cute way John kicked the underwear off from around his ankles made Sherlock more than a little tempted to be hell with wanking and just go in there and -

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock muffled a yelp, promptly throwing himself down the stairs in a wild, irrational attempt at escape. "I wasn't!" he announced mid-tumble, "I'm innocent, John, I've been framed! Don't move out!"

But John hadn't seen him and, still buck naked, he peeked out the door with a quirked eyebrow to find Sherlock in a stupor at the bottom of the stairs, curled in a ball on the floor with a rather obvious cover pillow on his crotch. John shook his head. "I don't know what the hell, Sherly-"

Despite conditions, Sherlock called out in protest. "Jaawwnn, we discussed that nickname!"

"-but if you're going to walk around the house with an erection for no good reason, please use your own laptop to take care of it, okay? The idea of you using the same porn I do I'd kinda unnerving."

Sherlock, unsure whether to be relieved or not, grimaced. "Ah, right," he said, slowly. "Totally unnerving." Then, after a moment, "Your porn is boring." It was - it was surprisingly kink-free and vanilla, although the folder with the lesbians was an interesting development, if not a bit of a disappointment.

John rolled his eyes. "You clearly don't get it," he said, "but ok. I was yelling for you - "

"Oh."

"-because I'm probably going to do laundry soon, so of you have anything that's not dry clean only and..." Sherlock zoned out here; John figured he was simply bored; Sherlock figured John didn't know he could see the clear outline of his ass from this angle.

John, clearly deciding he didn't understand Sherlock and never would, strolled back into his room, this time shutting the door behind him and not catching the groan and a thump as Sherlock collapsed against the floor.

This was a problem.

.

.

**_Solution #1_: stop being attracted to John.**

This first solution had seemed, to Sherlock, the simplest. He'd just go through his mind palace and delete every feeling of attraction he had; it would be hard work, he knew, but if he could delete his Aunt Leona every year after the Holiday dinners, he could do this.

Except that he couldn't. He found that the things he labeled as Attractive About John was almost a complete overlap with what he'd labeled as Everything About John. Forgetting about him altogether, he thought, would defeat the purpose even if he had been able to. Which he wouldn't have been - every memory, as it turns out, had a million extra copies.

That is, Sherlock cared about John. Incessantly. Which led to the second solution.

.

.

**_Solution #2_: confess feelings to John**

Sherlock spent a lot of time on this one, plotted it out in his head and scripted it based on a guilty summer spent reading Mycroft's not-so-secret romance novel stash (most of which, Sherlock realized with a grimace, had probably been used as a sort of semi-intelligent word-porn) and the well of unfamiliar feelings he personally harbored for the doctor.

John had been just sitting there in the kitchen, making tea and whistling to himself, and Sherlock figured, why save for tomorrow what I should do today? And he had marched bravely into the kitchen, greeting a bit too loudly, "John! I need to talk to you."

John smiled warmly and turned to him mid-sip of tea. "Dare I ask?"

Sherlock got as far as, "John," and a brief, very serious meeting of eyes before he pivoted on his heel and sped out of the room in a cloud of silent curses, blushing more profusely than he thought he was capable. Emotions, speeches, romance - no. Not Sherlock. What had be been thinking? And those damn eyes, John's stupid eyes, straight into the soul... There would have to be a third plan.

John stood bewilderedly in the wake of the abrupt flee, staring after him for a moment before returning to his morning routine. What a moron, he thought, and smiled fondly into his tea.

.

.

**_Solution #3_: seduce John with body**

This worked.

Sherlock knew this for several reasons. One, he'd used the methods before, on men and women alike. (Even, at one point, a very straight man - he was a very good cross dresser, believe it or not. But that was a different story entirely.) Sherlock had few inhibitions about his body and, from what he could tell, John wasn't entirely against the idea of being with a man. He just didn't know _which_ man.

Sherlock once again felt smug, this time stepping out of the shower, which he'd been sure to put on quite the heat. He took only a moment to muss his hair to an attractive manner and shimmy the towel low on his lips before turning to the door.

Which was, to Sherlock's shock, already opening. John looked mutually surprised, a faint blush rising in his cheeks. Which would have been just as well for Sherlock, too, had John not been wearing nothing but a very snug pair of boxer briefs and clearly been just back from working out, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and a slightly heavier breath.

"Uh," said John, after a pause. "Can I use the shower?"

"."

John found himself in the wake of a slammed bathroom door in a rush, blinking and blushing and thoroughly confused.

Sherlock, once again blushing profusely and quite grateful for the looseness of towels, cursed under his breath. He'd miscalculated - that it was Different with John. Seducing was quite a bit harder when you're attracted to the person, it seemed.

Sherlock frowned.

_._

_._

**_Solution #4:_ become thoroughly depressed**

Sherlock flopped onto the couch, resigned to his fate. He would be alone forever, he knew - John was the only one, he had to be; Sherlock was attracted to one in a million people (he had met 2, and that alone was very lucky), and in all likelihood, that would make John the only person Sherlock would ever be find that he could love.

Love. Fuck love. Love was stupid. John Shmawn, he had his work, damn it, Love could kiss Sherlock's sweet ass.

Sherlock's sweet ass that was never, ever getting any ever.

Groaning, Sherlock flipped over to lay face first on the couch. He didn't care, even, that he was wearing only that bath robe. He could wear it forever now. He wouldn't even need to shower. There was no one to impress any longer. He could start smoking again. He could do coke. Or not, both things were reckless. But he could watch crap tele. Get off on gay romance novels and replace all the main men with John in his listless fantasies. He could eat everything and get fat and die and it would be glorious. Fuck love.

**_Solution #_5: fuck love; get fat and die**

Pushing himself off of the couch Sherlock trudged off towards the kitchen, rifling through the contents with almost tangible discontent radiating off of him. John hadn't lied - there really wasn't anything edible in the fridge. After a while Sherlock settled for a half carton of only slightly questionable ice cream and shuffled back towards the living room. What to watch first on crap tele, he wondered vaguely. Perhaps he'd watch something about astronomy, just for the irony; or-

There was a Noise.

It wasn't just any noise. It was a Noise with noticeable capitals, the kind that piqued Sherlock's interest far more than he cared for. A strange Noise, almost...

Another Noise. Almost definitely that now, a Noise. Not just a Noise per se but a moan, quiet and muffled but not enough to escape Sherlock's keen ears. A Noise that was a Moan, and Sherlock was well aware that it was a bit Not Good to be overhearing, much less pursuing, very _least_ enjoying the delightful images that came into his mind while he did the first two Not Good things.

But Sherlock deemed himself fucked either way and tracked the noise. When he came closer to the Noise it turned out it was not just a Noise but several different Noises, plural, and they were being stung up into noisy words. And in a very specific voice, clearly doing very specific things to itself. John's voice, creeping through the closed door of John's bedroom.

"Mmm, oh, oh, God... Nnnn... Yes.."

Sherlock flushed without wanting to and his lust was quickly suppressed by a distinct wave of shame. Because watching John change initially on accident was one thing, but creeping in on a mastrubation session, that went part Not Good into-

"O-Oh, Jesu... Sherlock! Oh, God..."

Sherlock froze. First thought: John had seen him. But of course he hadn't, the door was closed. Second thought: John was

"Sh-Shit, Sherlock, ah..."

Sherlock dropped the ice cream. Blood rushed to his cheeks. And to other places.

"Oh, f-fuck, please..." There was a quite obvious creak of mattress from John's side of the wall. "Oh, god, yea-yeah, Sh.."

And that was the end of the line. Sherlock spun, still blushing profusely but no longer caring, and kicked the door down. Ignoring the startled "whatthefuck!" from John Sherlock tore off the bathrobe, turned to John, and announced, "Well, you said please."

John, understandably, flipped a shit. "Were you listening! Oh my god!" John groaned, grabbing for blankets to pull over himself. "I am so sor- Sherlock!" John barely had time to scoot backwards before Sherlock came tumbling onto the bed after him, landing gracelessly before him, one hand flying out to capture John's wrist.

"Yes," Sherlock said, voice deep and rasping. "I was listening."

John's face was dark with blush. "O-Oh, I'm-"

"It was really, really sexually appealing and I intend to hear it again."

John didn't have time to voice protest before Sherlock was rather on top of him, descending with a hungry kiss and feely hands clutching at John's stomach. John kissed back largely by accident, not completely sure whether he was still fantasizing or not and, if not, should he be screaming with pleasure or fear?  
>As if to answer the question Sherlock broke the kiss with a smile. "Im afraid there's nothing to be done, John," he said with fake , tinkling remorse. "You've expressed your interest, I've been infatuated with you since The Pool at least, and we're both naked. You can't argue with that logic."<p>

It took John only a second of more rough kissing and the sliding and grinding if naked skin to decide that, no, he really couldn't.

.

.

**_Final __Solution_: sex first, dialogue later**

"Damn, Sherlock. You were. That was. Yes."

"Romantic _and_ classy."

"I'm still not sure I'm not fantasizing."

"My ass hurts."

"Oh, now I am." ... "My back is going to have fingernail scratches from now until the end of time."

"I have a hickey on my neck. Be glad I have a scarf, John, Molly would have a heart attack."

"...Damn. I just. I."

"Rendered speechless?"

"I thought you were, like, asexual."

"And?"

"And you're... Gay? Bi?"

"Ugh. Labeling. Honestly, John, so dull. I'll have you know my ass is your alone; I have n-"

"You were a virgin?"

"You're surprised."

"Uh, yeah! You were like... And we didn't even..."

"I like it rough." ... "Apparently."

"...So what now? Am I your-"

"We are the same, John. Please, no labels. I'm not going to sleep with anyone else, I'm going to want to have sex with you and touch you a lot, and if you touch any of those dreadful women again I'll cut your dick off."

"Ow..."

"But I refuse to use boyfriend." ... "It's weird." ... "And juvenile."

"...Can I just call you, I don't know. Mine? "

"..."

"Sherlock, blush more often. It's cute."

"Shut up."

"Can I kiss you in public?"

"What?"

"Or at least hold your hand? I mean, we practically do that sometimes anyway, and people already assume..."

"John, have you ever been told you're kind of-"

"Adorable? Loving? Sweet?"

"-a show off?"

"Wanker."

"I think you're mistaking me with you, John. I do think I recall-"

"I caught you last week, Sherlock, with the porn thing."

"Oh, John, no. I was watching you change."

"Oh." ... "I'm kinda weirdly flattered."

"Aroused, too, I hope. No case today."

"Oh." ... "Yes, excellent, come here. Let's just cuddle a minute, ok? Seriously, get your hand away from my penis."

"Mmhmm, fine." ... "What were we discussing?"

"I don't remember. Move your face, your cheekbones are going to dent my neck." ... "Oh, right. I'm holding your hand whether you like it or not."

"Ah, yes. That."

"..."

"Good."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: And that's where the story left off, because I wrote this at one in the morning on a school night and I can't remember where the dialogue was going at all and then I died the end.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>I like reviews, especially at one in the morning.<strong>_


	8. The Romanticizing of Rain

**A/N: I wanted to post this much earlier but stupid was crashed all afternoon! Ughhh. Anyways, enjoy, I suppose; I might post a second one later tonight, still not sure. Also, a quick note - thanks for the feedback, guys! I don't know if I've gotten back to all of you personally (I try to, but I'm forgetful!) but I appreciate all of your lovely reviews. **

**Word Count: 715-ish**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): Really, really shameless fluff and John's mad dancing skills.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Romanticizing of Rain<strong>

* * *

><p>It has been nearly five days since Sherlock had come across an interesting case. There had been one crime that he had been called in for, but it had been a disappointment. Sherlock had solved it in less than ten minutes, including the interval where he stopped to insult Anderson for at least two.<p>

The boredom was unbearable. Sherlock had been sitting propped upside down on his couch for over an hour now, watching the rain outside the window and listening to John's breathing as the doctor typed in his blog.

Eventually John, seeming disturbed by Sherlock's silence, closed the laptop. Sherlock looked up at him for only a moment before returning his gaze to the window.

"It's raining pretty hard out there," John said.

Had Sherlock been aware of Captain Obvious jokes, he would have made one then. He wasn't, so what he said was, "Actually, it isn't. Rain isn't any harder than skin or an umbrella, or it would be very dangerous. Hail, for instance, is no good."

John had to force himself not to smile too broadly. "It's an expression."

"Expressions are stupid," said Sherlock, running a hand through his hair with a bored sigh. "People should just say what they mean. I should make a campaign for that; you could make bumper stickers. Promote it on your blog."

John rolled his eyes. "Really that bored?"

"So bored." Sherlock groaned, sliding partially off the couch so that his head was pressed to the floor. "Nothing to doooooo..."

"There's always something," John said, and he put his laptop down on the coffee table. Sherlock gave him a doubtful look.

"What do you suggest?"

"I don't know," said John. He stared out at the rain and smiled a bit. "We could dance."

Sherlock, caught off guard for once, readjusted himself into a normal sitting position. "Dance?" he asked, sounding as if John had just suggested they go out and play ping pong against Barrack Obama and Madonna. Notably, Sherlock hadn't a clue who either of them were. John chuckled.

"Come on." John hopped to his feet, his expression giving away nothing as he offered a hand to his flat mate. Sherlock stared at the hand like it was an alien. John sighed. "Please? Indulge me." Sherlock hesitated only a moment longer before taking his hand and allowing himself to be dragged unexpectedly up to the rooftop.

John had dropped his hand at the top of the stairs and Sherlock lingered distrustfully under the overhang. Still, his resolve to stay dry dissolved significantly as he watched John launch himself into the rain, a stunningly uncharacteristic expression of glee on his face. The doctor was soaked before he ran to retrieve Sherlock, all dripping and smiles.

"Come on," John insisted, offering his hand once more. "For me."

"For you, then." Sherlock took his hand and was led into the pouring rain. He was immediately soaked to the bone and was quickly reminded just how see through dress shirts could be. John grinned.

"And now we dance."

"I can't dance, John."

"Good. Neither can I."

John wasn't kidding about the dancing. They were both incredibly bad, jigging and spinning and falling over one another in a sopping mess. It wasn't long before they were both in fits of giggles, clutching each other as they stumbled about, getting increasingly soaked as they did.

Eventually they were both worn out and slumped beneath the rooftop's small overhang. Once the dancing had ceased it became clear just how chilly it was outside, but neither seemed to mind as long as they were sitting close to one another.

"That certainly wasn't boring," Sherlock mused. John nodded, still grinning giddily.

"No kidding," he replied, scooting somehow closer to the detective. Sherlock was hyper aware of their position - John with his head against Sherlocks chest and his arm slid almost protectively around Sherlock's waist; Sherlock's legs tangled with John's; Sherlock's hand twined with the one John didn't have resting on his thigh - and found that he rather liked it.

"This is nice," Sherlock said, after a while. "The dancing."

John nodded. "It's nice," he agreed, and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "It's all nice."

And they sat there, enjoying the comfortable silence and watching the downpour and wondering how long it could last.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews would be fantastic.<strong>_


	9. Only Vaguely

**A/N: Uh. It's really early. I'm not really thinking straight. So. If this story is in any way choppy or something, uh... blame fatigue, I guess. I was up all night roleplaying and arose from the slumbering pits of hell with a strange urge to write, so... yeahh.**

**Word Count: 290+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): shameless fluff**

* * *

><p><strong>Only Vaguely<strong>

* * *

><p>"I can't sleep."<p>

John cracked open a wary eye, vision bleary from sleep. Sherlock stood at the door, lanky frame leaning awkwardly against the doorframe and not looking certain whether he's welcome or not. John squeezed his eyes shut again, shielding from the light from the hallway.

"Shut the door behind you," he grumbled. Sherlock did, and it wasn't long before Sherlock was under the blankets with him, cold feet pressed against his warm ones. John wants to complain but finds that he doesn't have the heart. "You never sleep," John said blearily. "Why concerned tonight?"

"Oh, I'm not," Sherlock said. John frowned sleepily as Sherlock wiggled closer to him, somehow curling his body in a fashion that he could tuck his face against the smaller man's neck. "I don't need to sleep. I like this, though."

"Oh." John lay limp for a while, considering this through the haze of sleep, and then muttered, "People will talk."

"No more than they already do, John." Sherlock's arms slid around John's waist and he sighed, content. "I don't mind."

John smiled vaguely. "I'm not gay," he said.

"I know, John."

"I like women. They're nice."

"I know, John."

John nodded, seeming content with this response, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock to draw him closer. Through the haze of sleep he was aware that he was acting contradictory to his own argument but couldn't find the energy to care.

"You're really…" John mused, "You're really…"

Sherlock sighed. "I'm what, John?"

"You're really pretty. Really pretty, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyebrows arched. "You're really, really tired, John. Sleep."

"Sleep," John agreed.

John awoke in the morning tangled in detective and feeling vaguely homosexual. Seeing Sherlock's sleeping face pressed against his shoulder, John finds that he doesn't actually care.


	10. Can't Help It

**A/N: So I had this weird, wistful kind of angst this morning, and...**

**Word Count: 250**

**Ship(s): implied onesided!John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): Mentions of John wanting to have sex with a woman, which I guess is kind of horrifying for some people. **

* * *

><p><strong>Can't Help It<strong>

* * *

><p>John tries to get over Sherlock.<p>

It really should have been easy. John has no problem getting dates with nice girls, either on his own or being set up by Sarah, his first nice girl turned friend.

John is out with a girl today, in fact. Her name is Sandra. She's shorter than John, but not by much, with curves in the right places, big blue eyes and a tinkling laugh. She's pretty and could easily be gorgeous if she cut her hair and dressed a little better, she's sweet but not altogether shy, and she eats her food without a trace of self consciousness. She looks and acts, for all intents and purposes, just like the kind of girl that John would have thrown himself at before Afghanistan. Probably, John still would – he's enjoying the date, enjoying her, trying his best to act cool and casual and not too much like he wants to have sex with her. They're hitting it off, actually. In another world, Sandra could have been the woman John would want to grow old with.

But this world is this world. He's hitting it off with Sandra; they're laughing and having a good time and Sandra has already suggested that she'd probably let him come home with her. But when his phone buzzes, John checks it. And when it's from Sherlock, ordering him to come down to the Yard, he smiles, apologizes, and leaves early.

John tries to get over Sherlock, but he won't.

* * *

><p><em><strong>It would be really cool if my love for reviews weren't unrequited.<strong>_


	11. The Dust is Fond of Us

**A/N: Updates are getting a lot choppier now (obviously), but you can't say I didn't warn you. (Mycroft is getting pretty chubby again, guys, but don't tell him I said so...) Anyway, here's an update; I wrote this over the course of a school day (guilty as I am) and yeah. **

**Word Count: 940**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, brief mention of Mycroft/Lestrade but it's easily ignored.**

**Warning(s): Soft character death, lots of sad!fluff, violence (not detailed, but if you use your imagination), a bit of shameless fluff, and Mycroft being a bit of an odd bird. He means well, I'm assured.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Dust is Fond of Us<strong>

* * *

><p>Throughout the course of his life, John died five times.<p>

Once, it had been before he had ever truly lived. He had, for all intents and purposes, been still-born. Mrs. Watson had sobbed only after they revived him; she called him her miracle, her angel baby, given back to her by His grace. And John had, for all intents and purposes, lived his life striving to be that perfect child, eagerly obeying her and his good army father and doting after his little sister and her various whims. After Mr. Watson passed away, Mrs. Watson stopped hiding the alcohol, and so did Harry. John, in turn, stopped doting.

Second, John had died the sway he always knew he would. At war, scrambling to save a soldier wounded in the battlefield. The soldier was barely nineteen and although John hadn't known him for more than a week his eyes shone with eager joy and his smile was honest and John had thrown himself into the fray without a second thought. It was a stupid move and it put him right into the line of fire, for a supposed lost cause no less, and John paid for it. He was dead for almost nine minutes – doctors shouting, technicians whispering, steel faced soldiers fighting tears because damn if John hadn't saved most of their lives by now, some more than once. And John left with an ugly scar, a psychosomatic limp, and a lifetime of nightmares. But the boy had lived and perhaps, for that, John met Sherlock.

Third, John had died in the non-literal sense. Perhaps, since John's heart never stopped beating, it shouldn't be counted. But it was the death, perhaps, that hurt the most, that tore his heart out and left him miserable, numb, and alone. Dead in every way that counted. He was dead when he took as many hours at the hospital as he could, dead as he spent more and more time with his sister, dead as he went to his therapist, dead as he went home with countless women who thought they could fix him, dead as he visited the cemetery with Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or alone every Sunday. Although few recognized it John Hamish Watson the blogger, the army doctor, the danger seeker, the man, had died when Sherlock took the fall. And he stayed dead until, years later, Sherlock brought them both back to life.

Fourth, John had died a lover. Just another case, just another kidnapping, just another gun in Sherlock's face, just another natural reaction, another shove, another dive, another round of bullets whizzing through the air, another criminal with a gunshot in his knee. Just another case, except this time one of the bullets had ended up in John's chest. John had seen it then, the feelings, seen Sherlock with clarity as the detective checked the wound, checked John's face, and done a double take. He saw the horror in Sherlock's eyes when, suddenly, it wasn't a game anymore. Before he died, John heard three things – a sob, an I Love You, and the dying cries of a kidnapper-turned-murderer as Sherlock kicked him to death. The other man was long dead before Lestrade arrived and pulled Sherlock away and, even when the paramedics had revived John, Sherlock had not been sorry. He was a sociopath, after all – he hardly cared about whether the people around him lived or died at his feet, and Sherlock had cried ruthlessly when John awoke from his comatose and they had kissed until Mycroft had declared it an illegal public display and sent them both home. After that, life was easier.

Fifth, John died permanently. It was not how John had imagined he would die, not in the slightest. With the kinds of choices he made, John saw himself dead by fifty, at best; if he died before Sherlock in battle or after Sherlock from heartbreak, Sherlock was and would never be good news for survival. Yet here he was, eighty-something and curled in bed with his best friend, his partner, his husband, both comfortable and alive. Sherlock was humming and rambling about honey bees and his irritating older brother and his irritating older brother's husband and how he still somehow looks younger than them both even though he's even older than Mycroft isn't he or maybe it was the hair, and cases. They still take cases, which makes John almost as happy as it makes Sherlock, and though they leave most of the legwork to eager young Yarders now a days they still have adventures; the faces of pedestrians as they see them dash down the street get only more and more priceless as the years age them. John didn't quite pay attention to the topic of discussion that night, far too enraptured by the lovely, familiar baritone of Sherlock's voice to bother with the words it's using. Eventually, John is lulled into a blissful sleep from which he would never wake, his last thought a small worry: when Sherlock tried to wake him and couldn't, who would remember to make morning tea?

It was a pointless worry to begin with, but more so if John had known it. Mycroft Holmes came over that afternoon to find that he had outlived them both. It's unorthodox – they're both younger than him, and in better health. But Mycroft doesn't feel sad because seeing his brother there with his doctor on his chest, smiling and gentle and dead, Mycroft sees proof that they'd truly been alive at all. And that makes Mycroft smile as he calls the police and tells them the news.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews?<strong>_


	12. Management

**A/N: This one was mostly pointless. Also I'm going to give you fair warning - I'll probably be updating mostly only on the weekends for a while. Anyways, enjoy.**

**Word Count: 950+**

**Warning(s): filed under Things I Write on My iPhone at Three In the Morning. Possible trigger warnings for: child abuse, domestic abuse. Mentions and implications of near-casual sex as well as the usual kind. Some fluff.**

* * *

><p><strong>Management<strong>

* * *

><p>It was a rare thing to have John come home angry. He was a basically good, pleasant man. But he had his father's blood in him and if he gave his children anything, it was a temper.<p>

When John did come home angry Sherlock was always there to attempt to console him. Sherlock, however, wasn't the best at consoling people and often ended up either getting into a physical fight with John. Though the brawling was intense and genuine, even at their angriest neither seriously hurt one another. Or, on lazier days, Sherlock just ripped his clothes off and let John let off steam that way. That method often hurt more than the fighting, actually, but Sherlock would be lying if he said that he minded.

That afternoon was, for all intents and purposes, no different. Except that it was.

John threw the door open, not apparently caring that the handle left a dent in the opposite wall, shouted "Shut up!" into the silent flat, and kicked his shoes off as if they had personally wronged him. Sherlock closed his laptop and turned to quirk an eyebrow at him but John just stormed past and flopped face first onto the couch. John practically radiated doom and gloom.

Sherlock sighed. "I hope you don't want to talk about it," he said. John snorted and shook his head before he curled into a tight, angry ball, face pressed into the couch cushion Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Do you want me to take off my clothes?"

John uncurled for a moment and looked at him, considering, only to curl up again. "Later," he said. Sherlock put the laptop down and walked over to crouch beside him.

"You're terribly romantic," Sherlock teased. When John's only reply was a grunt Sherlock sighed again. "John, you know I can't help you if you don't tell me how to. I'm not a creature of empathy." Still he reached out instinctively, rubbing circles into John's back.

"Ugh." John twisted so that half of his face was showing; his expression was scrunched. "What are you, my wife?"  
>Sherlock chuckled. "Of course not, John. I'm a man, and we certainly aren't married." He paused. "And you'd be the wife, John. You're much nicer and you do all the housework and the shopping. And look better in an apron."<p>

"That's sexist." John's frown deepened and, seemingly out of the blue, he said, "We got a really hard one in today. At the clinic." Sherlock's eyebrows arched. John rarely wanted o talk when he was worked up – that was usually after either the angry domestic turned into fits of giggles or they'd both hit orgasm and Sherlock couldn't walk for the next two days. Still, Sherlock listened. "Two kids, sweetest darlings, a girl and a boy. Twins. They come in all the time for, ah, for check ups and things. But uh, today, they came in because the boy, Charlie I think. He had a fracture in his arm and when we took his shirt off there were… there were just… all this damage. It was so obvious."

Sherlock's rubbing grew rougher, just slightly. "Domestic abuse," he said. John nodded.

"I wanted to report it but his mom, she… she just looked so terrified of me, of what I might say. I don't even think I'm allowed to, anyway, Sarah acted so weird about it…" John sighed and screwed his eyes shut.

Sherlock bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

John smiled. "No," he said, "you're not. You're never sorry for things you didn't cause; you're detached that way." He was right; Sherlock shrunk a bit, nodded. John spotted Sherlock's reaction and the corners of his lips twitch upwards, fondness leaking through his dismal demeanor. "It's okay. I wouldn't have it any other way." Then, after a pause, he said, "What would make a guy do that, do you think? Just… abuse?"

Sherlock had plenty of responses to that, but none of them were the right one. He said nothing.

Slowly, carefully, John twisted around to sit on the floor beside Sherlock. After a short hesitation John scooted between Sherlock's legs and laid his head on Sherlock's chest, releasing a heavy breath. "I'm not like that guy, am I?" John whispered. "I don't want to hurt the people I love. I hate it."

Sherlock flushed slightly, taken aback by John's behavior. Then again, because he couldn't do anything else, Sherlock arched his neck and kissed John's hair. "When do you ever do that?"

"I hurt _you_," John mumbled. "We fight. I leave bruises, sometimes, I see them." A pause, tenuous, then: "I love you."

Sherlock swallowed, hard. It wasn't something they discussed often, feelings, nor the things they did behind closed doors. It went unspoken, more or less for doubt that any of it really existed. But John had broken the silence now and Sherlock said, "Would you believe me if I said I loved you, too?"  
>John stiffened. "Is it true?"<p>

"Yes."

"Probably not. But thank you."

Sherlock slid his arm around John's waist, pulled him close, and then closer until they were laying flat on the floor. Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying John's weight on his chest, John's breath on his neck, rubbing circles like promises into John's back. Eventually, Sherlock said, "You don't hurt me, John. Not where it counts."

John sighed, kissed Sherlock's neck."Thank you," he whispered. Then, quieter, "I'm sorry."

"Yes," said Sherlock, "I know. But you shouldn't be."

They laid there for a while after that, against each other on the floor, just listening to each other's breathing before Sherlock added, "As much as I enjoy this, the floor is uncomfortable. Can we have sex instead?"

John smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews?<strong>


	13. Of Love and Reluctant Intuition

**A/N: Not much to say about this one except that I really love Molly and she needs to stop falling for homosexual sociopathic maniacs.**

**Word Count: 591**

**Pairing(s): onesided!Molly/Sherlock, Sherlock/John**

**Warning(s): Uh, nothing really. Needless rambling? Fluff? Idk.**

* * *

><p><strong>Of Love and Reluctant Intuition<strong>

* * *

><p>Molly never claimed to be good at relationships. As much as she tried, Molly could never achieve any sort of long-term commitment with anyone and God knew her taste in men was severely misguided. But she'd done her research (mostly magazines and romance novels, but never the less) and she knew love when she saw it. Even when she didn't want to.<p>

Especially when she didn't want to.

Yes, love involving Sherlock was bound to be complicated, she knew, but it could at least attempt to be fair. Molly had seen it in herself first, the affliction with Sherlock. How could she not? To Molly, Sherlock was all in all the perfect man – tall, dark, and handsome, incredible smart, worldly and just the right sort of dangerous. If only he would be nicer, she thought, more compassionate. She'll realize later that such a wish meant that Molly could never truly have him, but not for a while. She doted after him with the cruel, patient assurance that Sherlock wouldn't be able to find anyone else. Except that he did.

Meeting John for the first time, Molly had liked him. The doctor was pleasant and considerate and he'd been a soldier, so Molly admired him as a rule. This friendly respect was quickly obliterated, however, in the face of jealousy.

At first, she thought she was being silly. John was fast friends with Sherlock, sure, and Sherlock trusted and cared for John more after a few days of knowing him than he'd cared for her, or anyone, after years. And yeah, sure, John got to see Sherlock in a way Molly never would being his friend and his flat mate, and he understood the detectives in ways that she couldn't hope to. And sure, John got to accompany Sherlock on his adventures and help him with cases.

But John was a man, a straight man, who dated plenty of women and made it clear on a near-daily basis that it Wasn't Like That. So even if John's eyes lit up when Sherlock spoke, even if they held eye contact more than a touch too long each time, even if John's smile was always the widest for Sherlock, even if John had and would risk his life to save Sherlock, even if John got to hold hands with and playfully tussle and have mornings with and sometimes even hug Sherlock, Molly had nothing to worry about. Except that she did.

It took Molly a while, through clouds of denial and the towering walls Sherlock put up around himself to realize that the feeling was mutual. It was there, had always been there, all the signs that Sherlock loved John. At first, Molly convinced herself that it was just because Sherlock hadn't ever had a friend before that he invades John's space incessantly. That his laugh is louder, better, not faked when John is there. That e never flinches away from John's touch and often even welcomes it. That he basks in John's praise far more than he should. That he looks to John for guidance. That he's more considerate with John, more careful with John, treats John like an equal. She tells herself its all just friendship and folly or maybe even an act, a game Sherlock is playing, an experiment. She tells herself John doesn't really matter.

But her denial falters, because she sees his sadness. That quiet mourning when John's gaze is turned elsewhere. And she knows. Because, try as she might, Molly Hooper knows love when she sees it.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews are pretty cool, guys.<strong>_


	14. Hat

**A/N: Ugh so I've been having writers block all day today and even though I have a bunch of ideas dancing around in my head none of them want to go on paper. But I wanted to post another update today because I probably won't be posting much at all this week after Monday, so I dug this up from my old files and edited it a bit, but I'm still not happy. Well, ignore my whining and.. e****njoy?**

**Word Count: 395-ish**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): discrimination against deerstalkers, Sherlock's... fashion sense? Also fluff.**

* * *

><p><strong>Hat<strong>

* * *

><p>Sherlock hated that hat.<p>

A deerstalker. It was the dumbest thing Sherlock had ever seen. There were _ear flaps_ on the God forsaken thing, and it clashed with almost everything Sherlock ever wore. Sherlock would have never even approached the thing if it hadn't been an attempt to block his face from the press. And what a grave mistake that had been – the public ate it up and it quickly became something that people identified him with. It became not a deerstalker but a Sherlock Holmes Hat within the bounds of his apparent "fans" on John's blog and it bugged Sherlock to no end. He didn't even _own_ the hat; Sherlock had even attempted to return it in a last-stitch effort to prove that it wasn't his, but the original owner had been an avid fan and insisted that he keep it.

Simply put, the deerstalker was the bane of his existence.

One night, in fact, Sherlock had been brewing an especially good acid in the kitchen and the idea to simply off the thing occurred to him. It would be simple enough – just pour acid all over it. It would be an interesting thing to watch and, anyway, the acidic experiment wasn't working the way he'd initially wanted it to. Getting the hat out of the way would be a major improvement to just pouring the stuff down the drain, especially because the last time he'd done that Mrs. Hudson had yelled at him.

Sherlock only got as far as holding the concoction above the deerstalker before John wandered in, eyebrows arched. "What are you doing?"

"I'm killing the hat," Sherlock informed him, waving the beaker demonstratively. John's expression fell.

"Oh," he said. "Really?"

Sherlock's eyebrows arched. Despite John's effort at a poker face it was obvious he wasn't pleased by the idea. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Oh, I don't know. I always thought it was kind of cute." John shrugged and, giving the hat an almost wistful glance, wandered out of the room again. Sherlock straightened up, holding the beaker loosely at his side and watching John leave. Only after he was absolutely certain that John wasn't coming back did Sherlock allow himself to blush, rubbing the back of his neck.

_Cute?_

Sherlock swore the deerstalker smirked at him from then on, but he never did get rid of it.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Review?<strong>_


	15. Of Gloves and Lack Thereof

**A/N: I have no excuse for this one except that I love winter/snow scenes and have been severely disappointed in the lack of snowfall where I live. That's it.**

**Word count: 790+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): shameless fluff, mentions of Anderson**

* * *

><p><strong>Of Gloves and Lack Thereof<strong>

* * *

><p>It was well below freezing in London and dark as ink. The moon was nowhere to be found that night, its former comforting light obscured by clouds. The only lights come from the dim streetlights and the windows of apartment occupants who choose to stay awake. Not many people do, especially after a blizzard, and to John it seems that all of London is huddled under a quilt somewhere. He rather misses the rain himself.<p>

Considering the weather, then, one would assume there would be no legitimate reason to be taking a stroll. That's what John is doing regardless, and he supposed that there really_ wasn't_ a legitimate reason for doing it. Who ever had a _sane_ reason to follow Sherlock?

At least John was in the appropriate gear. He had pulled on layer upon layer of winter wear before braving the icy disaster that London had become. Sherlock strolled on ahead of him, wearing only his usual coat as a shield against the frigid wind; John shivered just imagining it.

"Do try to keep up, John. As much as I love to keep Lestrade waiting, I'd like to get there before Anderson solves the case. Next year." Sherlock huffed, irritated by the mere thought of it, and John could see his breath cloud the air. For some reason, this makes John smile.

"You've got to be freezing," John said, quickening his pace to fall in line with the detective. "You could have at least worn gloves."

"Oh, bugger off," Sherlock muttered. John sighed and stared mournfully at Sherlock's hands; despite Sherlock's apparent disregard for the weather his fingers had certainly noticed it. The spindly digits had gone beet red from exposure to the cold, and John thought of the frost burned human feet in their freezer. John reeled.

"Your fingers are going to fall _off_, Sherlock. You'll get frostbite for sure."

"Unlikely. We're having limited exposure to the cold despite your paranoia, and we aren't too far off now. Honestly, I thought you were a doctor."

"You're an idiot." John didn't say anything more on the matter, though, and he managed to force himself not to look at Sherlock's hands again. "It's going to be an interesting case, then?"

Sherlock snorted. "Not really. I'm just bored enough to need to get out of the house. I do go stir crazy, you know."

John shook his head, a disbelieving smile stretching over his lips. "How _do_ I live with you?" he mused. "Needing to get out of the house in negative degrees…"

Sherlock grinned back. Sherlock always grinned back for John. "You live _thrillingly._"

"Certainly never a dull moment," John agreed, pondering this. He was so trained on this thought that he didn't think before taking Sherlock's hand. He could feel how cold Sherlock's fingers were even through his cotton gloves, and John was squeezing Sherlock's hand before he even fully realized he was holding it. Sherlock glanced at him with genuine surprise. John blushed and started to defend his actions, but his words died on his lips when Sherlock twined his fingers his and returned the squeeze.

They didn't say anything about it or even dared to look at one another. They just walked through the wintry London scape with careful smiles toying on their lips, crunching footprints in the snow that came closer and closer together.

It didn't occur to John just how close together they were walking until they arrived at the crime scene and all eyes landed on them.

Lestrade's eyes lit up. "Oh, did you guys finally give up and shag, or what?"

Jon gaped, blushed, and tried to move away, but Sherlock's frozen grip was surprisingly unrelenting. "No, nothing of the sort," Sherlock said, seeming altogether unruffled by the accusation.

"He wouldn't wear gloves," John explained quickly. Lestrade's grin did not falter, though Anderson's interest dissolved almost immediately. Sally's disapproving stare only hardened. Sherlock, apparently unamused, huffed. "Are we here to solve a hideous crime or discuss my love life?"

"Or lack thereof," John added hastily, looking choked.

Sherlock snored. "Yes, John. Whatever. Obvious."

Lestrade looked as if he was quickly approaching the point where the options were either laugh or explode. Sally muttered something under her breath that John didn't catch, and Lestrade was done for. Sherlock, who had caught it, went noticeably red in the ears, although his expression gave nothing away otherwise.

Anderson, for once, was the sensible one and just grunted with disgust. He turned back to the crime scene and resumed pointing out things that Sherlock immediately deemed irrelevant. John smiled and allowed himself to be swept into the case; things went on as usual, disturbing genius observations and near-harassment of an officer and all.

Still, Sherlock's hand never left his.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Just want to throw in that I adore all of my reviewers and I hope that I can post-up more better-quality stuff soon. I'm not the most experienced or the most talented, but I appreciate every review I get and each one makes my day. :) Thanks to everybody!<em>**


	16. Home

**A/N: I forgot that I finished this and I probably won't be able to update at all until Sunday so I figured... bonus short chapter. Enjoy?**

**Word Count: 420**

**Pairing(s): discusses John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): I really dig this setting, inexcusable fluff, cheeseballness**

* * *

><p><strong>Home<strong>

* * *

><p>Harry wrinkled her nose as she peered through the entrance of 221B. She hadn't been invited inside - partially because John didn't want her to and partially because there was approximately two thirds of a dead body on the kitchen table - but that wasn't going to stop her from making a synopsis of the apartment.<p>

"Honestly, John," she mused. "Don't you ever get tired of living in such a dump? I mean, you've both got money now, haven't you? Now that you've combined your funds and started taking more money for cases, I mean? You could always move out."  
>John blinked and supposed that, yes, that was true. He thought of the flat. It certainly wasn't Buckingham Palace on it's own. There were bullet holes in the wall and other various vandalism on every piece of furniture. It was constantly cluttered with case files and evidence, half-finished cups of tea, and various who-knows-what from experiments. Even if they were to clear out the clutter, which John suspects that they never will, they've left crude, permanent signs of their existence everywhere. There was a huge coffee stain on and around the armchair, concealed only by a cleverly placed blanket and the angle of the coffee table. Countless bloodstains and chemical burns could be found throughout the kitchen. All of the kitchen appliances had to be replaced almost monthly after being victimized by Sherlock's various experimentations, sparing only the teapot which John guarded with the ferociousness of a mother bear who was also not a morning person. The shower constantly smelled of mildew and the hot water supply was limited (although there were bonuses to this, since Sherlock would often just jump in with him in the morning). There was a patched hole in the ceiling from where hanging two body-bags had turned out to, in fact, be too much weight for it to hold and the framework of the wall had never quite recovered completely after the explosion; the woodwork was discolored to the point that it was almost charming. There was an inexplicable hole in the floor that Sherlock swore to Almighty-and-also-Einstein-OK-happy-now that he hadn't caused; that was actually true - John had been the cause as he had accidentally knocked over one of Sherlock's older acid experiments, but he would never admit to this. Sherlock's bedroom was a disaster zone that warranted no discussion.<p>

All in all, it was hardly the classic home.

John met Harriet's disapproving stare with a smile and a shake of the head.

"It's home."

* * *

><p><strong>Review?<strong>


	17. Sense

**A/N: So Mycroft's diet is working out better than initially expected and...**

**Word Count: 1,300+**

**Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, John/ladies, very briefly mentioned Mycroft/Lestrade**

**Warning(s): John smells weird. Also, references to sex, smells, unrequited affections, Anderson and lesbians.**

* * *

><p><strong>Sense<strong>

* * *

><p>Along with the heightened use of his other senses, Sherlock's sense of smell was superb. Usually, his wasn't the most pleasant of skills – London, and cities In general, were far from being the most pleasantly scented, especially when one was well acquainted with the homeless of the area. But it was the people he knew that were by far the worst. He hated Molly's perfume, she always put far too much on without seeming to mean to, and the cologne Lestrade wore was distracting enough when it didn't mingle with Mycroft's. Mrs. Hudson smelled pleasant enough usually, but the, ahem, herbal soothers often threw him off. Anderson's reek was and is unspeakable.<p>

John, though.

Sherlock liked the way John smelled. He couldn't explain the scent, really, much less explain why it was so appealing. John never wore cologne, smelling only of his medical issue shampoo and his own natural scent. What that scent actually pertained was actually lost on Sherlock – he smelled like tea and then like musk and like London rain and like detergent and like autumn, all in one afternoon. And yet with his inconsistent aroma, one that Sherlock could never quite get close enough to pin down, John never smelled _bad._ Not when he was sick, not when he'd just come home from the surgery, not even when they were both collapsed after springing through London for miles. B.O, apparently, did not apply to John Watson.

Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but he would sometimes covertly breathe John in over the nape of his neck while he was blogging or engrossed in a book. For science, of course – results: pleasing, but inconclusive.

There were days, however, that John came home carrying a scent that was not his own. Covering John's pleasant musk would be the assaulting smell of artificial apricots, bleach and cheap perfume, strawberries, or dusk Noir. Each of these scents triggered a name in Sherlock's head – Laura, Sarah, Jasmine, Katherine. Sometimes, he'd simply smell like sex. Those nights were the worst and Sherlock would put sanitizer under his nose and will himself not to perceive.

Sherlock tried not to care. He shouldn't care, really. He knew John liked women and had relations to them. It hardly mattered. Except that it did.

The sheer _number_ of them was enough to throw Sherlock off, especially since he seemed to be so serious about each one. Not because he cared about the virtue of these women or the sanctity of intercourse but because every single one of them stung, individually. Each girlfriend was one more person who John chose over Sherlock.

Sherlock knew it was ludicrous. John was straight and, anyway, relationships weren't Sherlock's area. But, with John, he found himself wishing that they were. It was a painful infliction, to put it lightly, and it led to countless nights crouched in a scalding shower, failing to delete the desire from his mind.

That night John came home smelling like cheap hairspray (_Tessa Tessa Tessa_) and practically radiating rage. Sherlock peered up at him as he barged in and chucked a bag (_overnight bag, planned on staying the night, intercourse)_ his coat (_stained, severely_ _–wine, cheap)_. Sherlock stared at John as he flumped into his chair; John sat still and allowed himself to be deduced, if only out of habit.

"Are you OK?" Sherlock asked, first, because sometimes he really did try to work on his courtesy. John just stared at him. Sherlock sighed. "She cheated on you, probably with another woman, definitely with someone taller than you. You're angry but more humiliated that you put so much investment in her and also because you were blind to her disloyalties. You walked in on them, not having sex, having dinner, but it was obvious; she was supposed to have plans with you but she forgot, she's really stupid, John. You brought her flowers but you dumped them somewhere, maybe threw them at her; they were nice, too, expensive. You should have kept them, I know I have a vase _somewhere._"

"Bastard." John smiled. Somehow, that always relieved him, and although Sherlock couldn't imagine why he was always happy to provide service.

"So I've been told," said Sherlock. He glanced at the discarded coat. "Bit shameless of her, though, throwing wine at you. She's taller than you, though, how _did_ she miss your face…?"

John grunted and shook his head, letting himself go slack in the chair. Then, he grumbled, "She had dumb hair anyway."

"Hmm." Sherlock covered his smile by flipping onto his back; John wasn't looking at him anyway.

"I'm gonna shower, OK? Will you make tea?"

Sherlock smirked. "Deleted it again."

"I figured." John sighed and plodded, still somewhat remorsefully, into the bathroom. AN hour and three minutes later a freshly-showered John was plopped on the couch beside Sherlock, tea in hand, crap tele blaring. Sitting so close to Sherlock would have been dangerous for almost anyone else, but the only thing John was in danger of was being assaulted by his flat mate's nose.

Half way into an episode of some low-budget quiz show John is, on cue, babbling. "Am I crazy or something, Sherlock? Is that why women don't like me? Am I just a complete social horror story and don't even know it because I'm so horrible?"

Sherlock snorted. "You're asking me?" John seemed to consider this, and then grinned in agreement. "Yes, you see? Ask Lestrade if you're so interested. I'd say they're all just too boring."

"Heh, yeah. Probably," John said. Then he glowered at the television for a moment and Sherlock looked over and watched him, a smile toying on his lips. Then John sighed, scowling. "Honestly, I'm about to just quit dating altogether. Just give up. Women aren't what they used to be, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt an unexpected flutter in his chest at the words and, fighting the urge to grin, he nudged John, hoping it wasn't too obviously an excuse to get closer to him. If it was, John didn't show it.

"Liar," Sherlock said. Then, boldly: "Wish you weren't, though. I like you better when you're single."

John huffed. "Yeah, I'm sure you do. No dates to get in the way of your crazy escapades. Insufferable bastard." Before Sherlock could register it John slung an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and side-hugged him. It was an incredibly awkward and unexpected gesture but Sherlock melted all the same. Today, John smelled like mangos, herbal tea, and wet firewood – all in all, unexpectedly pleasant.

"You're not half bad, Holmes," John mused, smiling lightly.

Sherlock resisted the urge to press his nose into John's neck. Muttered, "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Bloody brilliant detective, obviously, but an alright friend, too. I think I'll stay."

"Mhm, well, I like you well enough too, I suppose…" Sherlock responded.

After a few moments of poker-faces they'd both busted into stomach-cramping, relieving laughter, doubling over and falling over each other and shoving each other about until they somehow settled. Sherlock ended up splayed out on John's lap, head on the arm rest, and John slouched diagonal with his feet on the coffee table, both watching tele and grinning like children. Somehow, the position doesn't feel uncomfortable, even when Sherlock finds himself actually dosing off there, lulled by the drone of the tele and John's familiar scent. He half-wakes only when John heaves him into his arms and puts him in his bed, tucking him in and ruffling his hair before leaving him to sleep. John can't know how long Sherlock laid there after he left, archiving the memories away in the safest corner of his mind.

Three days later, John returned home smelling strongly of fake ginger and lilies. Later, he'll call it Stephanie, and Sherlock will say, "Boring," and pretend that he hadn't had his hopes up, anyway.

* * *

><p><em><strong>If reviews had an odor, what would they smell like...?<strong>_


	18. Having A Heart & the Perception of Time

**A/N: Hm, well, I haven't updated since Thursday. I haven't had much time to write, so you get this drabble thing. :I Enjoy.  
>EDIT: Well, then - this was supposed to be up yesterday, but ff(dot)net decided to be a dick and malfunction on me. So here it is again, for real this time; sorry if you all received update spam, dear Story Alerters. (Is that the term...?) **

**Word Count: 828-ish**

**Paring(s): Sherlock/John, although brotherly love with Mycroft and Sherlock also makes a cameo, and references to John/Molly.**

**Warning(s): spoilers for TRF, angst, possible suicide triggers. Kind-of-almost-half-way-fluff. Mild violence. And schizophrenia, I guess, if that's even a warning.**

* * *

><p><strong>On Having a Heart and the Perception of Time<strong>

* * *

><p>They say time flies when you're having fun. Sherlock had examined this saying, found that it didn't apply to him, and deleted it.<p>

As far as best friends go, Sherlock met John late in his life, him being in his thirties and John just over forty. They didn't even know one another that long following their initial bond due to Complications. But Sherlock felt that he'd known the good doctor forever, his simple smile and understanding eyes finding their way into even the darkest rooms in Sherlock's mind palace. Sherlock knows that it's an irrational sentiment, but he can't imagine life without him. It's John that makes him live, makes him care, makes him want to be something Good. If James Moriarty was right about one thing, it was this: John is his heart. Perhaps he always has been, somehow, even when they were strangers; it's an odd thought, but it feels right all the same. Sherlock likes to think that, maybe, that's love.

Sherlock doesn't tell John this for several reasons. Mostly, it's because he's almost certain John feels the same way. Had Sherlock been the more selfish sort (and had a bit more trust in his own capacity for feelings) he would've taken advantage of this deduction. But he knows John likes women and he knows he still likes the idea of settling down with one and having a mundane, happy family and growing old and retiring somewhere nice. Sherlock can't see himself ever being able to give John these things; he keeps his feelings to himself. Still the days of being with John are easily the best of Sherlock's life.

For Sherlock, time flew by when he was the most miserable.

He hadn't expected to be miserable. It was a case, after all, a splendidly complicated case. He had expected to enjoy picking Moriarty's web apart. And yet, as he stands on the roof, the tears are real and his chest burns like Hell and even though he knows it's not The End John doesn't know and Sherlock didn't anticipate feeling like half of him had been ripped off of him walking away from his own funeral. Three years – the longest case Sherlock had ever taken on – goes by in a blur of blood, fire, and chaos; Sherlock feels nothing. Had he felt nothing before John? Had it been so bad? Sherlock can't remember, but now that John had filled that space in his chest it feels far emptier once he isn't there anymore.

Three years, and he contacts Mycroft. His brother is uncharacteristically hysterical when they meet and Sherlock stands, stunned to silence, and let's Mycroft hold him and kiss his face and half-sob half-laugh; for a moment, they were those children again, dazed and overwhelmed in that giant empty house. Even though Sherlock feels cold and disjointed he realizes on a basic level that it's nice to know that Mycroft loves him still.

Once all is calmed and composure is regained, Mycroft brings him up: John. Sherlock feels even number.

John had been hit hard. He'd started hallucinating first, talking to the Sherlock who was not there. Occasionally, it was not just Sherlock he spoke to but Irene and, sometimes, even Jim – he would have dinner with ghosts, smiling and making tea and, occasionally, crying until he couldn't breathe. Then, there had been a suicide attempt, or almost – Lestrade had burst down the door when Mycroft had looked at his cameras and found John laying out rows of pills. More than enough. John had sworn he hadn't been trying anything, that he wouldn't ever, but he was hospitalized none the less when he started arguing with the Sherlock who wasn't there. Then, suddenly, last year he'd gotten better, and he met a girl named Mary. She's very nice and sweet and mundanely adventurous and probably John will propose to her sometime soon because what else is there to want?

Sherlock feels selfish for it – _is_ selfish for it – but as he stands there at 221B, he isn't sure which part of the story is making him nauseous. Because none of that sounds like _his_ John, his good doctor who was always there with his simple smile and understanding eyes and that's who he needed to open that door. The idea that John might not be there, that it might be some new version of John that Sherlock wasn't there to help mold, that doesn't care to have Sherlock back, is horrifying. For once in his life, Sherlock wants to turn and run, to live out his life not knowing. But Sherlock knocks anyway.

When John punches him in the face Sherlock sobs and he thinks, _Oh, thank God._ Because it's still his John, no matter what happens next. And what happens next is this: John sobs with him, calls him a bastard, and hugs him near hard enough to crack his ribs. And everything after that, too.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews would be really nice.<strong>_

_**Also, and I don't mean this in terms of my reviewers by any means, but my e-mail inbox has been oddly void of ff(dot)net messages. Is there a reason for this lack of updates, or are all the WIP stories I adore simply not progressing by complete coincidence? Maybe I have a problem...**_


	19. Sleeping Beauty

**A/N: "Wow, DC, two updates in one evening? What the fuck are you doing? Shouldn't you be saving this update for tomorrow and then tomorrow's for the next day, so your updates will be consistent? Don't you have a _life?_" If you were wondering, no, to all of that.**

**Word Count: 795**

**Pairing(s): Sherlock/John**

**Warning(s): shameless fluff, nonsensical cuteness; filed under Things Vaguely Inspired by Younger Siblings. Also, doom-and-gloom-not-a-morning-person!John curses like a sailor.**

* * *

><p><strong>Sleeping Beauty<strong>

* * *

><p>"John! John, get up! There's been a double homicide!"<p>

John groaned and shoved his head under his pillow in a grand effort to ignore the overtly cheerful voice assaulting his ears. He hadn't slept a full night in almost a week and a half and damn if he's going to get up again for the man who kept him awake in the first place.

"John, did you hear me?" Sherlock swept into John's room – and paused. The doctor was practically radiating doomsday, a rare but serious condition that clearly read One Wrong Move and You Die. Sherlock peered at his friend warily. "John…"

"Bring fucking Lestrade or some shit, Sherlock. I. Am. Sleeping. _Fuck._" Sherlock winced as John rolled onto his back, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and squeezed his eyes stubbornly shut.

"Even if Lestrade was even somewhat qualified to fill in as Friend and Medical Assistant, it's a Dimmock case," Sherlock whined, pacing carefully over to the side of the bed. John did not respond. "Anderson will be there too," Sherlock added. "I can't do it without you, John. Anderson and Dimmock on the same case will surely kill me. Or, well, kill them, more likely." No response, although John's eyebrow twitched. "Mycroft keeps texting, too. I'll definitely spontaneously combust if you don't come, John."

John stayed still, breathing steadied. Had Sherlock not had the deduction skills that he did, he might have thought John was actually asleep. Because he did have the deduction skills that he did, however, Sherlock just huffed. "Honestly, John, don't be a child. What good is pretending to be asleep?"

"…"

"I'm not leaving without you, John."

"…"

"What are you, Cinderella? Get up."

John snorted. "Sleeping Beauty," he corrected reluctantly, keeping his eyes shut.

"Oh. How modest."

"…"

Sherlock sighed. He didn't know much of fairy tales; his only recollection of them were the ones he remembered only because Mycroft had told them to him until he was eight and the disturbing ones delivered by Jim. He remembered the reoccurring theme, though, and clearly John knew something of them as well. Sherlock's lips twitched vaguely upwards.

"Come now," said Sherlock. "If you don't get up I'll have to play Prince Charming, and I think anyone could tell you I'm not cut out for that."

John twitched but said nothing.

"Fine."

John didn't quite understand the whole drawl as he really was half asleep lying there – a week and a half without a good night's sleep could do that to a guy. He was certainly wide awake when Sherlock caressed his cheek, though. It was shockingly gentle and nice and John wanted to jolt upright and ask him What He Was Thinking, but he was stubborn and stayed soldier-still, eyes screwed shut.

"John…" Sherlock swallowed hard, surprised at how difficult it became to compose himself at this impassable opportunity. He only hoped John wouldn't punch him in the face. "Please wake up," he said, a warning that John did not heed.

So Sherlock bent down and did what every fairytale told him to do: kissed him.

On cue John's eyes flew open, cheeks abruptly alight with furious blush. Sherlock's eyes were closed, long fingers still clutching John's face as he moved their lips together. It was a brief, chaste kiss, but for the moment it felt like the most intimate thing John had ever experienced.

Sherlock tried to smirk as he pulled away, but the only expression that would reach his lips was a horrible, honest smile. "Awake now, princess?"

John, caught between the urge to punch Sherlock in the mouth and the desire to kiss him again in the same general area, sputtered. "What the hell was _that?_"

"Hm… bit Not Good?" Sherlock huffed. "Well, it worked for Prince Charming." Sherlock swished away and tossed a bundle of clothes on John's chest. "Get dressed."

"I—Shit, what—"

"Double homicide; do try to keep up, my dear Watson." Sherlock grinned, winked, and sauntered out before John could notice the blush creeping onto the detective's cheeks.

"Sher_lock!"_

John huffed when his only response was a deep, baritone laugh. "Crazy bastard," John grumbled. He lifted an arm to rub his lips, as if to smear the kiss away. Still, he was wide awake now, wasn't he? Brain practically buzzing, heart thump-thump-thumping in his chest a bit faster than it probably should have been. Perhaps there was something to Sleeping Beauty. If John were to be honest with himself he'd say that, if anything, he resented being the proverbial princess more than he resented Sherlock's nutter wake up call. He _was_ a nutter, though. A completely moronic nutter that John definitely did not want to kiss again any time in the future. Ever. Bugger.

Despite efforts to the contrary, John gets dressed with a smile on his face.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews would be lovely.<strong>_

**_Also, in relation to my earlier complaint about story alerts: it turned out they _were_ updating. My e-mail simply refused to receive the alerts and then, one morning, every single alert from the Dark Days of 0 New Messages popped up in my inbox at once. Ugh. Well, enough of that - until next time!_**


	20. The Job

**A/N: This is short, but on the bright side Mycroft can fit into his skinny jeans again. I'll submit something wise and insightful eventually...**

**Word Count: 420+**

**Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, past John/Sarah**

**Warning(s): mentions of sex with ladies, fluff, drabble rambles and I guess vague violence if there are people out there that only like reading about kittens or something.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Job<strong>

* * *

><p>John is at work.<p>

He likes his work most of the time; the mundane normality it brings to his dangerous life is a welcome one. He likes his co-workers, even though they get irritated whenever he jabbers on about Sherlock and are often miffed that, despite his sporadic hours and falling asleep and leaving early because Sherlock is in some sort of trouble almost every week, he's still a better doctor than any of them. He likes Sarah and her calm understanding even through the Black Lotus incident and their odd half-breakup and John's tendency to fall asleep on her couch after having a "domestic" with Sherlock and that one time John moaned Sherlock's name while she was going down on him. They were sort of friends. And John likes helping people, even if it's just mundane things like checking for strep throat or casting-and-recasting a limb. John doesn't say it, but he lives for the days that some bloke crashes his car or gets stabbed in an alley and he has to play calm-collected-Army-Doctor again. Yes. Overall, John likes his job.

Sherlock does not like John's work. He doesn't like being alone in the flat without John and he doesn't like that he doesn't like being alone without John because damn if Sherlock didn't use to like solitude. Sherlock doesn't like how long it takes John to respond to his texts while he's there, even though he always does. He doesn't like John's co-workers because he was invited to one and exactly one "office party" and almost all of them were the professional kind of friendly – the forced, fake kind of friendly – that makes Sherlock's stomach curdle. Sherlock doesn't like Sarah, even though she proved to be brave during the Black Lotus incident and she had an unusual amount of common sense and she was actually quite nice to him and understood the situations he put John in better than most, because Sarah still sort of loves John. And Sherlock hates feeling jealous, especially when he knows the sentiment is unfounded.

But still, John helps people and when he does he comes home looking especially proud of himself. Sherlock hates the job a little less then, because it makes John happy sometimes and when he's especially happy he'll throw his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and stand on his toes to kiss him hello and sometimes laugh against Sherlock's lips and tell him how many lives he saved today. Not even Sherlock can resent that for long.

Sherlock is pouting about it, though. He always does.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Reviews would be splendid. <em>**


	21. Things About Closets

**A/N: Just wanted to throw out a big Thank You to any reviewers that for any reason I've failed to respond to - I appreciate every review I get, and each and every one of them brightens my day! :) I hope I can keep Mycroft skinny for you guys...! Anyways I don't really like this one but... whatever. I just wanted an excuse to mention the size of John's**

**Word Count: 1,300+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): filed under Things I Write on My iPhone at a Perfectly Reasonable Hour But I'm Still **Embarrassed** About, irrational laughter, Peeping Tom behavior, John's struggle with homosexuality, and Sherlock attempting to be "promiscuous."**

* * *

><p><strong>Things About Closets<strong>

* * *

><p>John isn't sure how he got here. That is, crouched in Sherlock's closet.<p>

It hadn't been his intention. John had only been searching for his laptop – Sherlock had a habit of stealing it and John hadn't seen it in almost twenty-four hours. This would have been OK, but he knew that Ella had e-mailed him and if he didn't get back to her soon about his countless missed appointments she was going to have his head. He was just searching through Sherlock's book case when he heard the door swing open downstairs.

John couldn't explain the reaction, really, but suddenly he felt incredibly guilty rifling through Sherlock's things without permission, even if he _was_ looking for his stolen laptop. In a moment of misguided panic, John had sprung for cover, closing himself in Sherlock's closet just as the man strolled into the room.

John realized his mistake immediately. He had no reason to feel bad about going through Sherlock's things – it wasn't as if he was prying and even if he had been Sherlock went through his things all the time. But now there he was, hiding in his friend's closet. Incriminating, to say the least.

John sighed and peered through the slats, praying that Sherlock would leave so he could make his getaway. But, as usual, Sherlock did not abide to John's wishes. He collapsed face-first onto his bed, groaning. How he managed to avoid falling onto the various piles of half-empty beakers, files, and who-knows-what scattered over his bed with such a graceless fall, John had no idea.

Sherlock laid there for a while and John squirmed – it couldn't be _now_ that Sherlock chose to actually sleep, could it? But no, it appeared, it had to be something completely worse. Sherlock sat up, stretched, and proceeded to start changing.

Now, John placed himself on the Kinsey scale of exactly zero and was straight as a ruler and could not be held responsible for what happened next.

What happened next: John's eyes lost any and all contact with his brain and he couldn't look away no matter how hard he definitely did not want to be watching Sherlock peel off his shirt. That shirt, that stupid _purple shirt_ that was way too tight but definitely never drove John crazy. Then, getting to his feet, he pulled down his trousers and kicked them across the room. John also couldn't be held responsible if he happened to rake his eyes over his flat mate's body, taking in the long limbs and the lean muscle there or noticing the trail of dark hair that ran down his navel. Or, for that matter, his penis, who apparently did not get the memo that John was staunchly heterosexual if its reaction to Sherlock wiggling out of his briefs was any indication.

It was only after Sherlock raised his arms over his head and stretched, back arching like some sort of sex-gymnast that John realized that he was being a peeping tom. (The only reason this did not occur to him before this moment was because his brain had short circuited.) Through most of his life John strived to be a good guy, a gentleman if you will, and it dawned on him that this set of morals extended to men as well. Even – or maybe especially – to mad men flat mates with no interest in relationships and expressly no interest in _you_ whose closets you were hiding in.

This dawned on John too late. Sherlock turned to the closet, arched an eyebrow, and said, "Honestly John, I know you're in there. I can hear you shuffling about and you left a trail of evidence-"

"Oh _God_, I'm so sorry!" John burst through the closet door, face a delightful shade of beet red, and barged out of the room, shouting high-pitched apologies over his shoulder. It was only once he'd raced half way up the stairs to his room that he realized the implications of what Sherlock had said and he froze mid-step, eyebrows scrunched. _Wait._

He spun around, raced down the stairs again, and kicked Sherlock's door down. "If you knew I was there why did you _strip,_ you moron?"

Sherlock, who had only had time to pull on another pair of briefs and pull a pair of blue sweatpants up to his knees, glanced up. "What?"

"You heard me! If you knew I was in there, why did you take off your damn underwear? Trying to seduce me or something?"

John hadn't meant the accusation seriously but Sherlock's eyes lit up, a broad, almost childish grin spreading over his face. "Oh," he said. "Is it working?"

Sherlock didn't give John time to answer even if he hadn't been reduced to an incoherent, sputtering blush-machine, hopping nimbly to his feet and peering down at him. "Oh, no need to answer that. It's obvious." Sherlock ran his fingertips over his neck, and it took John a moment to realize he was checking his pulse. "Along with your elevated pulse you have an erection those pants are doing nothing to hide. Impressive, by the way – have you measured that?"

John sputtered. "What the hell?" he cried, springing backwards and nearly colliding with the doorframe.

Sherlock blinked and looked, for once, genuinely surprised. "Oh, don't be coy, John," he said, bland. "I'm clearly commenting on the size of your—"

"Sherlock, _please-"_

"—because I'm attempting to be…" Sherlock paused, looking miffed for a moment. "…promiscuous."

John blanched. The very idea of Sherlock being _promiscuous_ was decidedly boggling, much less… "You mean you're trying to… proposition me?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Right."

Sherlock stared at him for a good minute and John stared back, trying his very best to keep a seriously concerned expression on his face before cracking. And, once cracked, bursting into laughter. Sherlock gaped at John as he doubled over himself, holding his stomach in a fit of laughter. "What? What!"

"You're _flirting_ with me!" John cried, wiping at his leaking eyes. "_Sherlock _bloody _Holmes_ is_ flirting_ with me!"

"Yes, _and?_ What's so strange about that?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes which, in the end, only caused John's laughter to become more hysterical. "Am I not a candidate for flirtations?"

"Oh, God, no… it… it's just… it's just… oh my _God._" There were tears streaming down John's cheeks.

Sherlock wasn't sure why. In fact, he wasn't sure _why_ about anything to do with John at this point – it was one of the few ignorances that Sherlock had come to terms with – but Sherlock started giggling too. It got to the point that, although he hadn't any idea why either of them were laughing in the first place, the laughter ended up bouncing and rounding back again, both men flailing and smacking at each other and gasping for air. Sherlock honestly considered revising his _Death By Laughter Is Impossible_ hypothesis until John, still grinning and gasping out little chuckles, leaned up on tip toes and kissed him on the cheek.

Sherlock stopped laughing for only a moment, hand flying to his cheek. "Oh?" he managed. Giggles still bubbled in his chest and he found that, despite his best efforts, he was still grinning like an idiot.

John flushed and grinned back. "I missed," he said.

"Obvious."

It turned out Sherlock had better aim than he did, even with the both of them still mid-giggle, lips soft and smiling against John's. John's eyes fluttered shut at the contact, heart skipping a beat or two. The kiss was light and playful, nothing like John would have expected from the detective, but perhaps it was the giggling. It hardly mattered – John was quick on the uptake and stepped forward, bringing their bodies closer and deepening the kiss. Sherlock, in a rush for oxygen, pulled back for a moment, cheeks flushed. John automatically moved to his neck, biting and kissing and generally not caring much about breathing.

Sherlock's eyes rolled back. "Hypothesis correct," he said. Or, rather, moaned.

Now, John placed himself on the Kinsey scale of exactly zero and was straight as a ruler and could not be held responsible for what happened next. Sherlock didn't really mind.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Do you know why I write this story? I don't get that many reviews or anything. I like it. I get off on it. But one day there's going to be all of these reviews and you're going to be the one that put them there.<em>  
><strong>


	22. Monkeys, Assassins, and Morphine

**A/N: This one's a bit random, but I was grinning like an idiot while I typed it and I figure somebody might appreciate it's light, somewhat-crack-y nature. Also, Martin Freeman being a hedgehog is still my favorite thing in the entire universe.**

**Word Count: 1,850+**

**Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, Lestrade accidentally watching (and, just as accidentally, liking it)**

**Warning(s): Mentions of (but nothing graphic) sex, death, and Anderson. Also, bad superhero jokes and several references to John's penis. Again. (I have a problem.)**

* * *

><p><strong>Monkeys, Assassins, and a Good Dose of Morphine<strong>

* * *

><p>Sherlock was a spider monkey.<p>

That was the only explanation, John thought, for his uncanny ability to fling himself across rooftops with such swift grace. Part of it, John supposed, was by comparison – John had short legs – but even chasing a trained assassin Sherlock kept up without fail.

John scrambled to keep up as the detective darted after the masked figure, coat flapping out behind him like some sort of superhero cape. _Spider-Monkey Man, _John thought cheerfully as he fought his way up yet another fire escape to the top of a rather large building. John was in no way afraid of heights – he'd jumped out of his fair share of helicopters while in Afghanistan – but climbing onto a twelve story building after a mad man and a masked assassin was unnerving regardless.

Especially when it turned out to be a dead end.

By the time John got up onto the rooftop Sherlock and the masked man were facing off, circling each other at a tense distance, Sherlock's eyes darting about in clear Deduction Mode. The man had a knife in hand and at least one spare in his belt and although Sherlock's hand was in his coat as if to make a draw, making the assassin hesitate, John knew he was unarmed. The only advantage they had was that the assassin hadn't spotted him yet, vision possibly obscured by the mask.

_The Amazing Adventures of Spider-Monkey Man and Doctor Hobbit: Mystery of the Rooftop Assassin,_ John thought. And it was, in fact, the last thought before soldier-mode kicked in (or, perhaps Protective Lover mode, seeing as the assassin had a knife poised to stab Sherlock at any given moment) and he was leaping forward.

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes widened at the last second. "John—"

The masked man had just enough time to sprint forward approximately two inches towards Sherlock before John had rugby-tackled him to the ground. It would've been a pretty good move, too, except John miscalculated – he'd overestimated the weight of the man and he'd caught him off guard – and managed to fling them both nearly off the edge of the building.

"Shit," John noted wisely. Heights, he quickly decided, were far more scary when you were hanging twelve stories up with an angry assassin pinned beneath you.

"John!" Sherlock sounded ever-so-slightly higher pitched than normal. This, of course, meant that he was hysterical.

John ignored him in favor of wrestling with the blade out the assassin's hands; it clattered off to the side. This left John just enough time to elbow the assassin in the face before Sherlock could tear John away from the edge.

John spun automatically to snatch the abandoned knife off the ground – if he knew anything about assassins, it was that you didn't catch them by surprise twice and being unarmed for that experience was not on the top of his priorities list.

There was a yell (something in Spanish), a crunch (painful), and a scream (surprisingly high pitched). Then, after a pause, a somewhat distant thud. Slowly, John looked up, face paled.

Sherlock brushed off his coat, nose scrunched. 'That was tedious."

"Sher_lock…_" John peered warily over the edge; there was a quickly gathering crowd of pedestrians around the body below. Nobody seemed to have looked up yet, though. John shuffled away. "Well he certainly didn't survive that."

"Obvious, John. That _was_ rather the point."

John rolled his eyes, on the verge of a smile despite himself (that _was_ his partner, wasn't it, roundhouse-kicking people off of buildings) but faltered, eyes raking over Sherlock. When his gaze reached Sherlock's chest he gasped, stomach dropping to his feet. "Are you bleeding?"

"Hm? Oh, right." Sherlock fingered the bloody patch in his shirt carefully, looking miffed. "It seems I got stabbed a bit."

John immediately pulled out his mobile, scrolling through his contacts with a determined expression on his face. Sherlock groaned. "Do you have to text Lestrade? You can just stitch me up; I'm _fine_, John." But, upon further inspection, Sherlock was most certainly not fine. Both men winced as John peeled Sherlock's shirt off, revealing quite the bloody mess. John was horrified that Sherlock now had a stab wound because John had overshot a tackle. His Sherlock. Sherlock was mourning the loss of one of the few shirts that fit him properly. It had been a gift from Mummy.

"Sit down," John said. He pushed Sherlock gently downwards until the detective sat. "Greg will be here with an ambulance-"

Sherlock groaned in annoyance. "No hospital!"

"—as soon as possible. Don't be a baby, 'Lock." Sherlock sniffed and twisted to make a retort, only to hiss in pain and press the now bundled shirt harder against the wound, expression twisted in pain and irritation. John smiled faintly and crouched to sit beside him. It wasn't too bad of a wound considering, thank God – for an assassin, his aim had been somewhat poor – but it was bleeding a good deal and the shirt was quickly becoming more crimson than white.

"I can't believe he _got_ me," Sherlock muttered. "It was a moment of weakness." John shook his head; he could hear sirens in the distance and he mentally crossed his fingers that it would be for them. Chances were it wasn't. Doctor mode kicking in again John swatted Sherlock's hands away and put pressure on the wound himself, not altogether minding the blood that got on his hands.

"Don't start. Even the Amazing Spider-Monkey Man makes mistakes," John said. Sherlock grimaced, although whether it was at the wound or the weird comment John couldn't be sure.

"Spider-Monkey Man? You mean me." Sherlock snorted. "What does that make you, then? Captain Hedgehog?"

John barked a laugh, out of surprise more than anything else, and raised an eyebrow at him. "Hedgehog?" Sherlock just nodded, expression practically screaming _Obvious._ "I was thinking Doctor Hobbit, but that's actually less offensive."

"Me? Less offensive than you? There's a first time for everything, John."

John smiled at him before pulling the shirt away again, re-inspecting the wound. "Bleeding slowed – you should be fine. There's still the risk of infection, though."

Sherlock snorted, because infection was something that happened to other people, and Sherlock leaned to kiss John on the forehead, because all of this bleeding business was getting rather dull.

.

Lestrade was the first to make it to the roof and he couldn't say he was surprised to find John crouched over Sherlock, one hand applying pressure to the wound and the other laced through Sherlock's curls. He was kissing him in a way that suggested that, had the situation been different, Sherlock would've been more than shirtless.

"Okay, _okay,_ gross. Nobody wants to see that." That was Anderson, not Lestrade – the silver haired inspector blushed as he realized he'd been looking far too long as Anderson came up a good two minutes behind him.

John looked thoroughly embarrassed and moved away, cheeks burning. Sherlock clung to his arm, releasing an irritated moan. "Sorry," said John, ears scarlet.

"I'm not," Sherlock all but purred, nuzzling his face to John's wrist. John balanced and pulled his arm away- maybe the detective had lost more blood than he thought…

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Still here."

"Yeah," Anderson agreed, "Get a room."

"We already _have_ a room, Anderson. We live together. Obvious."

"Oh, sweet Hell…"

"John, I'm still in pain, kiss me again."

"No, 'Lock. Ambulance first, snogging later."

"Dull."

.

.

Several hours later John was tucking a thoroughly tuckered-out, drugged-up Sherlock Holmes into bed, smiling through his own exhaustion. "Easy does it, watch the bandages," he warned, patting Sherlock's hip as reassuringly as he could.

"Ahh," Sherlock sighed. "Bed. I missed Bed." He pulled the blanket up to his nose, grinning giddily up at John. "You know what?"

John yawned. "What?"

"We should have sex. Now. On this bed."

John's eyes widened; Sherlock reached up at him, wiggling his fingers and giving him the most suggestive smile he could manage without breaking his face. John had to admit, sex with Sherlock sounded great. (Sex with Sherlock was always great.) However, there was the other thing.

"You just got _stabbed_, Sherlock."

"I'm aware. I want to be stabbed again, in fact, only this time your penis and not in my side." Sherlock nodded seriously, arms still reaching as if expecting John to leap into them. John rolled his eyes and swatted Sherlock's hands away before crawling into bed beside him.

"We're not having sex until you heal up, 'Lock. It's dangerous and, anyway, you're under the influence."

Sherlock's eyes danced, with delight or morphine John wasn't sure. "None of these things are bad enough to stop the Amazing Intercourse of Spider-Monkey Man and Captain Hedgehog, John! We cannot be subdued by a minor flesh wound! The intense power of our lovemaking shakes the Universe to its very core! Who knows what could hang in the balance?"

John chuckled despite himself. "I think you've been watching Star Trek wrong, love," he said fondly. "But I love you, anyway. But no Universe shaking sex tonight, I'm afraid." A pause. "I mean it; get your hands away from my crotch."

"Mmm, fine." Sherlock's hand slid up to rest on John's stomach instead; he tucked the other arm between them. John smiled and, despite knowing that his arm would be sore in the morning, slid an arm under Sherlock and pulled him more snugly to him. Sherlock sighed and arched his neck to kiss John's forehead. "I love you, too. Thanks for nearly tackling a dangerous assassin off of a twelve story building."

"Yes, well. You can make it up to me by not tangling your cold ass long legs around me in the night."

Sherlock hummed. "No promises."

"Eh, well, worth a shot. I guess you _did_ just get stabbed."

Sherlock chuckled sleepily and relaxed against John, soft smile gracing his lips. Soon enough he was snoring quietly in John's ear; John smiled.

Sometimes dating a spider monkey was really nice.

"By the way," Sherlock mumbled, only half asleep, "don't make tea in the morning 'til you clean the pot. I boiled a foot in there; interesting results, actually… hmm." Sherlock returned to happy snoring; John sighed and closed his eyes, trying not to think too hard about his teapot.

Sometimes, John supposed, was the key word.

* * *

><p><strong><em>If convenient, review. If inconvenient, go ahead and don't review if you don't want to because I only want you to review if you really want to and I respect and adore the readers who just lurk as well as my lovely reviewers and won't pitch a fit if I don't get as many reviews as I'd like since I don't always review, either. I do love reviews, though.<em>  
><strong>


	23. Gone

**A/N: Sorry no update yesterday, Mycroft found the cheesecake. I'm home sick today, so there might be two today to make up for it. This one is a bit longer than I wanted it to be (because I don't like it much) but whatever. Enjoy.**

**Word Count: 1,000+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, hint of MorMor**

**Warning(s): lots of angst, mentions of violence, Sherlock kills people, references to suicide**

* * *

><p><strong>Gone<strong>

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was not a man prone to missing people. Then again, he wasn't prone to falling in love, either. John had changed him in more ways than one.<p>

He tried to deny it, the loneliness that came with being away from John, but he couldn't. There was a gaping hole inside him now, a persistent agony, demanding to be felt through every aspect of Sherlock's existence.

When Sherlock woke up in the morning it was to a noticeable emptiness on the other side of the bed. There was no forehead to kiss, no affectionate grumble that it was too early. There was no one to tell Sherlock to go to sleep in the first place, though, and eventually Sherlock stopped sleeping except in random bursts whenever he passed out from exhaustion.

When Sherlock played violin in the middle of the night, there was the creeping knowledge that no one was complaining about it not because they were amazingly compliant and loved him and his musical quirks but because there was no one there to complain even if they wanted to. Eventually Sherlock stopped playing – the new violin wasn't the same, anyway.

When Sherlock went out to do The Job – not the work; untangling the web was not the Work. The Work filled him up inside; this Job was empty and painful and he wanted nothing more than for it to end – it was alone. When he snuck through a base or an alley, there was no breath on his neck, no one peering over his crouching form; when he took chase, there was no pounding of footsteps behind him, no one to turn and tell to keep up; when Sherlock caught up to whoever he was chasing, there was no one to hold him back or to urge him on, no one to have his back when there were conflicts. Sherlock tried to stop thinking about that, had to remind himself to look over his shoulder, because without John no one was watching for him.

When Sherlock killed someone – he didn't realize it until he'd done it, but he'd never killed anyone before, not directly – there was no one to help him clear away the body. There was no one to help wash the blood off of Sherlock's hands, no one to kiss the tears off Sherlock's cheeks; there was certainly no one to tell Sherlock it was OK that he felt nothing for the men and women whose lives he had ended, no one to reassure him that he wasn't evil, wasn't a machine. When Sherlock removed the last of the incriminating evidence against himself from each cut string of the web, Sherlock wondered if John would have done all of those things or if he would be rejected for this. He wondered if John would have had a better solution.

When Sherlock returned to the flat each night there was no one to ask him where he'd been, no strangely affectionate comment on the blood on his shirt, no one to praise Sherlock on another job well done, no bad television in the background. There was no smell of Earl Gray tea and jam and John; there was no pleasant humming in the other room as Sherlock hacked his way through the internet, no one to kiss his neck and tell him he was working too hard. There was no quiet reassurance that Sherlock was human and, in a way, Sherlock soon forgot that he was.

When Sherlock got hungry there was no one to make him eat; he barely noticed himself, and the strangers in his picture frame were hardly going to remind him. There was no off-handed comment about how he was losing a lot of weight; the cabinets remained empty and the milk carton had not been replaced in nearly a year. Sherlock went to the supermarket exactly once after the Fall and saw a woman having a row with a self check-out machine; there was no one to tell Sherlock that he couldn't live properly on take-out every other week and no one to scrape him off the ground when he collapsed from malnutrition and exhaustion.

When Sherlock got shot by a well-trained sniper with a serious grudge and a bleeding heart, there was no one to stitch him up, no one to force him to go to the hospital. There was no one to stop him from ignoring the pain and running after the man, from shooting the sniper more times than necessary and feeling nothing. There was no one to be glad that he was still alive once he recovered, no one to assure him that he even was alive anymore. There was no one to tell him whether or not it was strange that, even as he dug the bullet out of his own wound and stitched his own skin, he was thinking of John Watson and his lovely smile.

Even within his own mind palace Sherlock could not escape it. It blared throughout his entire brain like the shriek of a fire alarm, if fire alarms could punch you in the gut.

Still, Sherlock could not return. Never mind that he needed John, loved him even. Never mind that John was miserable without him. Never mind that every day spent apart was agonizing. There was nothing that could be done. At the end of the day, as long as the web was still intact Sherlock had to stay dead.

If there was one thing to be said about James Moriarty, it was that he kept his promises.

So Sherlock kept on living, if you could call it that, careful to keep the veil of death over him for three long years. Days came and went, strings were cut, and bridges were burned. It came to a point where the only thing keeping Sherlock going was knowing that John was OK. That out there, somewhere, the love of his life was alive and well and that, eventually, if he fought hard enough, they would find each other again. It never occurred to Sherlock that John didn't even have that – that John thought he was dead, that he made John think that he was gone forever – until he received the text. Being a sociopath could do that, Sherlock supposed.

It came on a Tuesday.

**From: Mycroft Holmes  
>To: Sherlock Holmes<br>**It doesn't matter to me, but there are several signs that John is considering suicide. On the chance that you have faked your death, I would recommend fixing this, brother dearest. You've left quite the hole in London. _–MH_

For once, Sherlock was quick to take Mycroft's advice.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews?<strong>


	24. Sleepyhead

**A/N: Sorry you guys didn't get that extra update I promised, I ended up being busier than I thought and anyway there was this half eaten box of thin mints in the pantry and... Also, I pulled an all-nighter last night, so if this one is a bit off-beat or has some hideous, glaring error, that's probably why.**

**Word Count: 1,200+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): indecent amounts of fluff, sleepy!John, insomniac?Sherlock, mentions of paranoidCroft**

* * *

><p><strong>Sleepyheads<strong>

* * *

><p>Sherlock didn't get a lot of sleep.<p>

Before John came into his life Sherlock pulled not so much all-nighters as all-weekers and would periodically hit the floor for a forceful, unanticipated nap time. It was almost always in inconvenient places – in the shower, half way out of Mycroft's car, on the subway while holding the rail, on top of bodies in crime scenes and, once, off the edge of a bridge.

This still happened post-John, but less frequently and, more notably, Sherlock would now always wake up tucked in bed with a cuppa on the bedside table and the sneaking feeling that someone had kissed his forehead.

At current it had been a week and five days since Sherlock's head first hit the pillow. John wasn't much better, catching sleep only in hour-long-if-he-was-lucky naps while Sherlock paused in his rush to either shower or escape to his mind palace. Both men were running purely on coffee, jam, and adrenalin as they worked to solve the (seemingly endless) case involving a murderous cult and the occasional oddly placed goat.

Now that it was solved, however, John was dead tired and trying very, very hard to keep his eyes open as they waited for the subway. Sherlock, as per usual, gave away no signs of fatigue or any other sort of weakness whatsoever as he peered down at his flat mate. "Are you OK?"

John looked up at him with sleepy eyes. He opened his mouth to respond but yawned instead. Sherlock apparently found this amusing because he chuckled and slung an arm around John's shoulders. John made a weak noise of protest and tried (rather half-heartedly) to shrug Sherlock off. "Come on, get of'a me, Sherlock. People 're going to talk."

"I'm supporting you, John." Sherlock gave him a look, serious expression returning. "Besides, the likelihood of encountering anyone of significance in our lives here today is very slim. I don't see why you care if _strangers_ think we're a couple."

Through the blear of sleep John swore he saw Sherlock blush. John shook his head. "Just do, Sherlock. Unlike you, I have a shred of-" John yawned again, eyes squishing shut "—dignity left."

When John's eyes reopen Sherlock seemed closer than before, his eyes far bigger. Analyzing.

"'Lock, don't deduce right now. I'm _tired,_" John grumbled. He bumped his hip against Sherlock's but the detective's focus did not falter. John really wished the train would get here already – maybe he could take a nice nap on the way through the tube. Doubtlessly he'd end up with his head on Sherlock's shoulder or some other unspeakable position, and people would talk, but John's level of caring was at something of an all time low.

"I like it," Sherlock said suddenly, breaking John's train of thought.

John blinked, slowly. "What?"

"When you call me 'Lock. I like it."

"Oh." When had Sherlock's nose started being so close to his?

"Especially when you're all sleepy and casual about it. I like it. It's… comfortable. I like that you're comfortable with me; I'm comfortable with you." Sherlock was definitely blushing now and John found himself suddenly very much awake and wondering just what Sherlock was confessing to, anyway. Thought taking him John licked his lips subconsciously—and regretted it; Sherlock's eyes darted to his mouth, blatantly staring as John's tongue retreated back between his lips.

"Um," said John. Sherlock's eyes were almost definitely blue today.

The detective smiled then, suddenly, began to look very, very tired, as if the last straws had been tossed onto his back, breaking some sort of invisible barrier between the detective and maters of the body. Still, he smiled, blue (blue?) eyes alight and churning with thought.

The sound of the train coming roared and John looked up, suddenly enough that Sherlock missed when he swooped in to kiss him, lips barely grazing John's bottom lip and sliding against John's cheek. John froze and spun around, eyes wide.

He said, "Sherlock?" because clearly this was all a dream and John is in a gutter somewhere, half dead with exhaustion, and not being almost-kissed by his incredible, beautiful, infatuating, _asexual _flat mate.

Sherlock smiled clumsily. "I was trying to kiss you," he said, "but you made me miss."

Captain Obvious jokes came and went in John's mind, quickly wiped out by a raging tornado of previously restrained homoerotic What Ifs and an overwhelming floor of desire to wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck and…

"I'm sorry, John, but I'm afraid I'm feeling sleepy, and you are warm," Sherlock noted and did three things – leant forward, chuckled, and kissed John shortly and properly – before he promptly bit the dust.

John reeled but managed to catch him; his head spun. _The bastard fell asleep!_

Dragging his unconscious flat mate into a crowded subway car in this state was exactly the opposite of what John wanted to be doing (wanted: a good long nap; wanted: a cup of tea; wanted: Sherlock to wake up and explain himself or maybe just kiss him again) but, at this point, there was little choice. Once Sherlock was out he was _out_ and no amount of shaking, yelling, or natural disasters occurring could rouse him now. Muttering to himself in question as to just how this madness had become Business as Usual John maneuvered the much-taller man onto the train, making a point not to make eye contact with any of the other riders. It hardly mattered – John could feel them staring even after he'd situated his unconscious friend in the seat beside him.

…_Friend? Can I still say that, just _friend_ after that display? He _kissed_ me, after all. _John blushed at the mere thought.

It wasn't just that, though, was it? Just this week alone he'd submitted himself to insomnia, chased cult members through the city for hours, and had been fully prepared to leap and take a bullet, all for the mad man in his lap. Would John have done all of that for his army buddies? Maybe. Would John feel alive doing it, feel filled to the brim with the unreal, incredible brilliance of it all while he did it Probably not

He'd never wanted to kisss any of his army buddies, certainly, and he'd never let them wobble onto his lap when he slept. John's eyebrows scrunched.

Fuck the people who stared – Sherlock ought to be comfortable on the few occasions he actually slept. And who was to say it wasn't normal caring, _friendly_ behavior to run his fingers through Sherlock's curls? To glance about and sneak a kiss on his forehead? Who said it didn't help him _sleep?_

Well, it probably didn't. But John enjoyed it.

Sherlock's face was slack and peaceful and he snored; it was a noise that tugged persistently at John's heart, quiet and mumble-y; John choked irreparably. There were few better things, John thought, than seeing Sherlock completely unguarded, except perhaps the knowelage that he wouldn't be angry if he found out you'd been watching.

God, John really wished he'd kissed Sherlock back.

There was, unfortunately, something incredibly lulling about brushing fingers through the hair of someone you care about. The two of them would wake up five hours later still on the tube, Sherlock's head still on John's lap and John's head lolled back, fingers still laced through Sherlock's curls. It would end with an unfamiliar part of London, a pesky journalist, smug-then-frantic-then-smug-again texts from Mycroft, John's wallet being stolen, and a good bit of sore muscle, but they sleep long and well and John dreams of cheekbones and eyes that, on second thought, were more of a silver.

* * *

><p><strong>Review?<strong>

**Also: This is literally the most tame thing I have ever written that involves a pairing of any kind. Seriously. They don't even touch each other's stomachs or thighs or kiss for more than two seconds or anything. _Sherlock doesn't mention John's penis._ Guys this fic is the apocalypse for me I don't think you understand- I'm going to go nap now. **


	25. Punchline

**A/N: All I wanted was drunk John and Greg. Instead, I got this. Oh well - you can't win every battle. Enjoy?**

**Word Count: 590+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, Lestrade and John have bromance, slight implied Lestrade/Sherlock bromance**

**Warning(s): references to suicide, sex, and alcohol. S3 spoilers.**

* * *

><p><strong>Punchline<strong>

* * *

><p>"God, just last Saturday, Greg. I swear, it was just last Saturday. Did I tell you about that?"<p>

Greg smiled indulgently, sipped his beer, listened. John had knocked back a few – more than, as a cop, Greg probably should have been comfortable with. But it had been a while since they'd gone out to the pub and, smashed or not, it was nice to see John like this. The two men had little in common anymore, but Sherlock was always a topic that kept them going all night.

"I told him, _Sherlock, I'm not in the mood for your games,_" John said, nodding seriously and taking a swig of his own drink. "I was tired, you know? Long case, no sleep, feeling absolutely nasty after running through London for _hours_, so yeah, I wasn't in the mood to do anything but peck away at that stupid blog."

"I like your blog," Greg said good-naturedly. He always had been good-natured. John grinned.

"Well, thank you. I can't imagine not, it's all about that idiot. But anyway we were sitting in the living room and he's all, 'Oh, John, I'm not playing any games, I'm just trying to help you relax!' even though he knows damn well that rubbing my feet isn't the path to helping me relax. That's how it is with Sherlock, Greg. He starts with your feet and you start feeling good and then the next thing you know there he is, all the way up your butt."

Greg choked on his beer, thrown into an unexpected fit of laughter. Drunk John was better than the other Johns. John-and-Sherlock was the best, but Greg wouldn't ever say so, because John-and-Sherlock wasn't John-and-Sherlock anymore, it was John-and-aftermath and that was going to be because Sherlock decided to throw himself off a hospital rooftop.

"What a dick," said Greg. He's still grinning.

John grunted his agreement, kicked his beer back, and Greg knows he's pondering the fact that, no, it wasn't just last Saturday, it wasn't last month, and it wasn't last year. They've been through this enough times – although, lately, those times have been less frequent – that Greg saw it coming when John slammed the cup back on the table. He also saw it coming when the good doctor crumbled and his face collapsed into his hands, shoulders shaking. John wouldn't cry, Greg knew that too – they both ran out of tears quite a while ago.

What was unexpected:

"I was going to kill myself, you know. I keep thinking I'm going to kill myself, but Sherlock would be so angry with me. I just know he'd be angry with me."

Greg flinched, recoiled. He never considered it, really, not like he should have, that John might kill himself. Before he could think to respond properly John grinned at him again, eyes dancing and haunted. "He never did get the milk, you know that, Greg? Not _once_ did he go to the store and get the damn milk when I asked him; I shouldn't still love that asshole. Do you know why I still love him?"

_What a question. _Greg rubbed the back of his neck. After a moment of consideration, he sighed. "I don't know. Why?"

John's smile faltered. He'd forgotten the punch line to his own joke.

"I don't know," he answered.

At a loss for words, Greg kicks back another vodka shot. Then, smile creeping back onto his lips, he asked, "Do you remember the case with the goat?"

"No," John lied. "Remind me."

Greg did. Probably, that was why they didn't meet too often anymore.

* * *

><p><strong>Review?<strong>


	26. Charmed

**A/N: No update yesterday, but don't get too discouraged; they're bound to get a lot choppier than they have been, as warned from the get-go. Anyways, enjoy.**

**Word Count: 630**

**Pairing(s): pre-Sherlock/John**

**Warning(s): shameless fluff, quite cheesy, dancing circles, Sherlock acting a bit like a little girl. Or completely like one.**

* * *

><p><strong>Charmed<strong>

* * *

><p>John is used to a lot of weirdness. He lives with Sherlock Holmes, after all – his whole life is weirdness and, well, it takes a lot to faze a guy after finding a severed head beside the mayo.<p>

Still, John is surprised when he wakes up to find a bracelet on his wrist. In and of itself the bracelet isn't that unusual save for that he hadn't put it there. It was a loose-fitting silver chain; a single small, half-circle charm dangled off of it. Upon further inspection, it had initials on it. Not John's.

_SH._

The discovery was unnerving enough that John bided his time mentioning it, especially since he wasn't 100% convinced that it had been Sherlock's doing. After sneaking enough glances at Sherlock's own wrists it became evident that Sherlock wasn't wearing one himself. On the other hand, when John continued wearing the thing around the flat that day Sherlock looked markedly victorious. No explanation presented itself.

Finally, that night, John had to ask.

"OK, Sherlock, I give up. What's with the bracelet?" John held up his wrist almost accusingly; the threat behind his demand was thoroughly ruined, however, by the tinkling of the little charm.

"Is it not obvious?" Sherlock sighed theatrically. "Pity, I was rather hoping you were simply chuffed into speechlessness."

John's eyebrows scrunched. _What?_

"It has your initials on it," John said, slowly.

Sherlock's eyebrows arched. "Is that not how these things work?" When John just stared at him Sherlock rolled his eyes and (John balked at this) removed his scarf. Beneath it there was a quite familiar looking chain and the other half of the shape-charm dangling from it. He couldn't see from his distance, but John could guess the engraving.

"I'm not the bracelet type," Sherlock said, as if this explained anything. "And I thought having each other's initials was more suitable; what would be the point of having our own initials?"

John stared. It was hard not to notice Sherlock's neck when it donned a choker with your initials on it. It was probably one of the most appealing things John had ever witnessed.

_Wait. What?_ John shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought.

Sherlock sighed, unhooked his necklace with one hand and grabbed John's wrist with the other, eyes screwing momentarily with dual concentration. John could only stare as the brought the charms together.

"They're friendship bracelets," Sherlock said, ungodly amounts of childish satisfaction leaking into his voice. John gawped. His charmed, it seemed, was not a half circle after all.

"They… they make a heart." John's ears weren't turning red, no sir, definitely not, not even pinkish.

Sherlock's gaze hardened. "Friendship bracelets," he repeated. "We're friends, are we not?" He still hadn't released John's wrist. When the doctor didn't respond, Sherlock huffed. "It's _sentiment_, John. I thought you appreciated that sort of thing?" Sherlock paused and – John's eyes widened – actually blushed. "Bit Not Good…?"

Everything in the Straight Guy Handbook demanded the following response: "Yes, Not Good, are you daft? Good God, only little girls and silly, love-struck teenagers exchange charm bracelets. What planet are you from?" This response did not even occur to John Watson.

John closed his hand over his wrist and, coincidentally, Sherlock's hand. "No, I do. I do like it. I'm just… surprised." John smiled and did his best to ignore the way his heart was quivering. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"Yes, well." Sherlock moved away, blush deepening. "Do not mention it to Mycroft, that's all I ask." He hooked the matching necklace back around his neck, the hint of a smile fighting its way onto his lips. The feeling in John's chest at the sight was something like adoration, something like possessiveness, something like love; John carefully deemed it fondness.

In public, John wears the bracelet on his ankle.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews?<strong>_


	27. Mundane

**A/N: OK yes, another one, but there's a good chance there won't be another update on Monday or maybe Tuesday, either, I'm quite busy and I wanted to shove this chapter on, too. SO THERE.**

**Word Cout: 700+**

**Pairing(s): pre-Sherlock/John**

**Warning(s): Well I hope you aren't tired of fluff yet. Also I guess slight partial nudity...?**

* * *

><p><strong>Mundane<strong>

* * *

><p>You wouldn't guess it, but the day John realized he loved Sherlock was incredibly mundane.<p>

It was a Saturday night and it was going nothing like either party expected. John had planned on going out that night with Lauren, the mousy girl who he'd been dating for a few weeks; Sherlock had planned on doing an experiment involving a human brain and some fingernails that John had very specifically not asked about. However, he'd stood Lauren up one too many times that week while chasing Sherlock through the streets of London and Molly had somehow managed to misplace the brain he was supposed to be picking up from the morgue that morning. And so, by some twist of fate, both men ended up flopped on the couch watching a marathon of Britain's Next Top Model and inhaling Chinese take-out.

John had been disappointed about Lauren (although perhaps not as much as he should have been) but he found that he was actually enjoying the situation, even if that situation found him watching reality TV in nothing but sweat pants with another man's legs draped over his lap. In fact, he enjoyed it very much more than he should have.

Sherlock seemed to be having a bit of a ball himself, although he wouldn't say so if John asked. He was in the middle of a rant about how obvious it was who was going to get kicked off ("Just look at the way the judge's eyebrows twitched! Look at it! John, this show is so obvious!") and about the girls ("They're all so bitchy and conceited and _skinny._ Why are they so skinny, John? What do you mean I'm that skinny – I'm not that skinny! These girls clearly do not eat. _I eat sometimes, John!_ You're missing… you're missing the point!") and looking quite animated about the whole thing. John didn't think he'd ever seen him look more comfortable than he did just then, and he wondered why that was. Perhaps it was the beer they were sharing (Sherlock was a bit of a lightweight when it came to alcohol, apparently). He looked more unkempt than John had ever seen him, hair sticking out in every direction and clad in nothing but a bathrobe and some boxers (that John was fairly sure were actually his but didn't want to say anything), and, most miraculous of all, actually _eating _Chinese food. It turned out he had quite an affliction for noodles and had devoured not only his own Chow Mien but also half of John's (to only half-hearted objections) but an objection to anything and everything red meat, banishing his steak pieces to John's plate. Despite the absolute mundane scenario John found himself looking at Sherlock with something close to awe; the detective eventually tore his eyes away from the tele for long enough to notice and his eyebrows scrunched.

"What _are _you looking at John?" Sherlock asked. John blushed. He didn't know _why_, exactly – if anything Sherlock should be blushing, he was the one lounging around with his limbs spread out everywhere – but there it was. Sherlock's eyebrows arched farther. "What?"

_Just staring at you, no big deal._

"There's sauce on your face," John said instead, although there wasn't, and reached forward to rub his finger over the edge of Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Thanks," he said, cautiously. When John just smiled at him he turned back to the show, squishing his face into something between disgust and amazement. "Dear God, five nose jobs? Look, it's obvious! People are stupid, John." John rolled his eyes, only to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's toes curling on his lap. "Not all people, but most people. Are there any more noodles?"

John wasn't sure why it was – never would be – but that was the moment it dawned on him. He loved Sherlock Holmes. Not just the cases, not just the amazing, thrill-ride of a lifestyle he provided, not just the genius, not just the mind but the man. And, as strange as it would doubtlessly be later on, for that moment John felt nothing but bliss at the revelation. Even if nothing comes of it, he's glad. At least now he can admit it – John has got to be completely mad. He zoned out, lost in the feeling.

Sherlock, sensing opportunity, stole the last of his noodles.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviewing is a pretty mundane activity, but I still appreciate them.<strong>_


	28. Naked Truth

**A/N: Oh! So there's an update today after all - and a long one! I had a lot of unexpected down time today! SO I don't know how happy I am about this one so much (it's a bit scatter-brained) but I enjoyed writing it well enough.**

**Word Count: 2,500+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): shameless fluff, nudity, extensive mention of the male body, hopeless-Romeo!John, self-conscious!Sherlock, and a bit of slightly-creeper!, mentions of Mycroft in a dress and Anderson. Also: cussing, references to self harm, mentions of sex, senseless romantics...yadda yadda you get the gist.**

* * *

><p><strong>Naked Truth<strong>

* * *

><p>John found himself leaning against his bedroom door stark naked, thoroughly aroused, and very much alone.<p>

He hadn't been alone originally, of course. Just moments before he'd had a very friendly Sherlock Holmes right up against him, tearing off his clothes, and making a general joy out of the afternoon. John had been fairly set on continuing said activity at the time (still was, really) and, if his penis was indication, so had Sherlock. How, then, John had made it from point A – surprise impromptu foreplay with his flat mate and over-due partner-in-UST – to point B – confused, alone, but still naked – was beyond John.

What he _did_ know was that Sherlock had stared at him for a good minute before he took off in a wordless tizzy and the look in the man's eyes had been… what? Fear? Panic? Embarrassment? John shrunk; inwardly he scrambled for reason. There was _always_ a reason with Sherlock – wasn't there? As far as relationships went, though, John had no idea where he stood with Sherlock at this point.

He couldn't imagine he'd overstepped any boundaries – sure, he'd kissed Sherlock first, but Sherlock had taken it upon himself to drag John into the bedroom and tear off all his clothes. Hell, Sherlock was still fully clothed – he hadn't even taken off his bloody scarf! John hadn't _said _anything particularly swishy either, had he? John's eyebrows scrunched, trying to remember the things that had flown out of his mouth.

_Mmm, finally, _finally_, yes._

_ Careful for the lamp th—oh—_

_Oh, shit, 'Lock – you're going to bruise if you—ahh, good _God_, nevermind, keep at it._

_God you're so beautiful._

The rest of it had been particularly incoherent or muffled out by Sherlock's lips; for the life of him John couldn't imagine that any of that had been offensive, unless of course you were accidentally Mycroft listening in. Hell, John thought, there wasn't even the Not Like This excuse seeing as the only thing they'd had to drink at the bar were a few bottles of lukewarm Diet Coke; even in celebration Sherlock didn't like slowing his brain down.

John ran his fingers through his hair, eyes screwed shut.

Was he looking at this wrong? Was it Sherlock in the wrong here instead of himself? Was John being used as some sort of…. experiment? A failed experiment – had he proven to Sherlock the tediousness sexual relationship? Or, perhaps worse yet - had Sherlock realized John had honest-to-God feelings for him and felt guilty?

(_Perhaps he just likes blue balling me_.)

John squirmed.

The first kiss flashed through John's mind. Sherlock had been surprised – _actually surprised! _– and something close to amazed, as if the answer to the most interesting, impossible case had just revealed itself before him. John thought he must have looked very much the same, but shorter.

There was something else John knew then: if he didn't go after Sherlock now, he'd never forgive himself. Heart pounding in his ears John rushed down the stairs.

.

He finally found Sherlock crammed into the far corner of the bathroom, face pressed against the cold porcelain of the sink. John stood in the doorway and stared; Sherlock's knees were tucked against his chest, entire body stiff. To anyone else it might appear to be nothing more than a typical mope; on Sherlock Holmes, John knew it was mortification.

Sherlock looked up at him with storm cloud eyes and opened his mouth to speak but instead just hung there, eyes locked on John's. Eventually John broke the silence himself, but although he wanted to say something meaningful just then the only thing that made clearance was: "Oh, _Sherlock._"

John ignored Sherlock's protesting twitch and slid down to sit in front of him, knees knocking with Sherlock's. He tried not to notice, he did, but he did notice – Sherlock's face was still flushed, lips still swollen. (_Oh. I did that to him. Oh, oh, oh._) Sherlock's toes curled. "John…" he mumbled – almost a greeting, almost a question, almost an apology. John felt a tug in his chest and curled an arm around the detective's waist, pulling him into a sideways embrace.

"It's fine," John whispered. "It's all fine." Then, because it was hard to hold back in such a situation, he pulled Sherlock closer and kissed his temple. He smelled vaguely like pumpkin, cigarette smoke, and something chemical that John can't name and doesn't want to. He also smells like John – _oh _– but he'll file that away for later.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice trembled slightly and cracked; John actually startled. "I never… I'm so sorry, John. I didn't want it to… to be this way… with you."

John's heart clenched. (_What does that mean?)_

"Hush. Don't apologize – it's ok." (_Is it OK? Doesn't matter – it's always OK with him for me._) "Save your sparse apologies for when you've actually done something wrong. God knows your supply's limited." Sherlock nodded marginally and John kissed him on the cheek, unable to help himself. A knot of worry was forming in John's stomach, tangling with his adoration – (_love? oh_) – and crawling into his throat. "Please just tell me what's wrong. I thought we were having a pretty good time myself; what happened on your end?"

Sherlock made a noise that might have been a chuckle as much as it might have been sandpaper rubbing against a chalkboard. (_Oh, God, surely he hadn't been crying, had he? Had he?_) "Here I was thinking you were straight," he said. He sounded so staunchly sarcastic that John had to smile. It faded when Sherlock spoke again, this time softer: "It appears that my capacity for arousal was significantly underestimated by me due to a lack of interest in intercourse… before you—" Noted. "—which explains why you ended up nude… but not so much why you _remain _nude." John blushed, remembering the modesty he was supposed to have; Sherlock blushed a bit himself, and then scowled. "It isn't your body I'm concerned about, of course. Yours is… well."

Sherlock's eyes swept over John in a way that made John feel equal parts flattered and afraid.

He coughed. "Well, uh, thanks. Army, you know?" John said, slowly. He eyed Sherlock for a moment, eyebrows scrunching. "I don't see what that has to do with anything?"

Sherlock shifted and looked blatantly uncomfortable. Despite this, he started his explanation with the same blatancy that he explained anything. "I am feeling _doubtful,_ John, that you'll feel the same inclinations in regards to my own physical form. While I am base-level attractive on some scales you have until recently only expressed interest in women. If being a man didn't handicap me enough, you should know that many body is nothing especially appealing in the sexual sense either – it's all transport, you see, no care to it; my skin tone, for example, is well below average pigmentation as I rarely remove my coat to gain any sort of exposure to the sun. I am also quite… thin, to an unhealthy degree some would claim. Not to mention the _scars…_ not anything like your own, I assure you, highly unappealing. It's…" Sherlock trailed off; John was staring at him as if he'd grown not just one extra head but three. "What?"

"You… you chose the moment that I'm naked in your bedroom _ready to be ravished_ for you to feel self conscious about your sex appeal? _Really?_" John was actually grinning. "You _are_ incredible!"

An angry blush plumed on Sherlock's cheeks. "Now is not the time for teasing!"

"Oh, oh yes. Yes, it _is_, you crazy bastard." John released a true, ringing laugh and twisted around to kiss the protests off Sherlock's lips. "You're super attractive, you hear me? You're like a fucking demi-god or one of those posh bastards who old dead Greek guys made statues of and you cann_ot_ honestly look in the mirror every morning and think I'm more attractive than you."

Sherlock scooted back some, as if to get away, but only succeeded in giving John leverage to slip between his legs. "John—"

"Shhh." John stroked a thumb over Sherlock's jaw, dark eyes twinkling. "I won't do anything invasive, OK? Just let me show you. It's only fair."

Sherlock flushed. "Show me?"

"Think of it as an… an experiment."

After a long, tense moment Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded his consent. John's light expression faltered slightly; he really _was_ worried, beyond worried. The notion that Sherlock didn't know he was gorgeous made him ill. But he knew Sherlock and he knew acting too concerned only pushed him away; so John smiled against Sherlock's forehead and said, "Look. Come on, now, look at me."

Sherlock did, although not happily. "What?"

John didn't respond, just drew his hands down Sherlock's neck, pressing his thumbs over the edge of his jaw. There was very little protest when John pulled the scarf away, exposing Sherlock's neck; John hummed and kissed the pale skin there, parting his lips to brush his teeth against Sherlock's Adam's apple. Sherlock arched his neck subconsciously, eyes rolling back to stare at the ceiling. "John, I don't see how this is complying to the Scientific Method—"

John kissed him into silence and made quick work of Sherlock's coat. The detective didn't protest much after that, to John's surprise – he just returned the tender kisses and (albeit cautiously) allowed himself to be unwrapped. John held back none of the emotion, expression bleeding raw awe and adoration with every bit of skin he uncovered; Sherlock watched John watch him dubiously until he could keep his eyes open no longer and they fluttered shut, finding himself stiff with tension and down to velvet briefs.

"Look at you," John whispered, running his fingers down Sherlock's chest, pausing at every scar to run his fingernail along it as if tracing the roads of a map, sliding his palms over his ribs. He doesn't ask about the scars even though he can tell the wounds were self-inflicted – they run in deep, spiraling patterns in his alabaster skin like an aching artwork. John bent to kiss each one firmly, gently, silently vowing to ask about them one day. For that night, he said: "You're perfect."

Sherlock scoffed but the noise was half hearted and John was almost sure there were tears in his eyes. "Perfection is a foolish notion, John – nothing and no one is flawless. Certainly not _me._ And perfection has so many variables to meet, many contradicting, clashes of opinion and culture—"

John buried his face in Sherlock's stomach, cutting him off. "Beauty's in the eye of the beholder, 'Lock. Call me cheesy or whatever you please, but even your God-damn flaws are perfect to me." John grinned and kissed Sherlock's belly, relishing the tickle of treasure-trail and wondering at how it was just slightly ginger. "Even if you're an annoying dick all the time – which you are, by the way – that's part of you being perfect. You can bloody blue-ball me every night and I'd…. well, be rather peeved, actually, but that's only natural. But I'm not going anywhere, not ever, if that's okay with you."

"John…" Sherlock swallowed hard, looking more strained than John had ever seen him. "John, you only confessed that you had romantic interest in me this evening. Is it really appropriate to be declaring undying l-" Oh. "—affection, isn't it?"

"Does it matter?" John wants to say what he thinks – that he's loved Sherlock forever, even before he realized he was attracted to him he'd loved him – but doesn't. He already sounds like a bad romance novel; he hated to think of making it worse, even if he meant ever y word of it. John's gaze dropped to Sherlock's stomach, fingertips tracing aimless patters over the soft ivory skin. (_He looks like a statue or something but he isn't he feels nothing but warm and human and perfect._ Oh.)

Sherlock ran his fingers through John's hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp. "No… no, I suppose it doesn't." Sherlock smirked. "You and I do have a habit of getting ahead of ourselves, don't we?"

John chuckled despite himself. "No kidding. We'll be married before Anderson even figures out we've kissed. Have Mycroft shoved into a bridesmaid's dress before he even has a chance to devour all our wedding cake."

Sherlock barked a laugh; the sound was irrationally glorious ringing in John's ears. "We'll have four children and name them all Hamish!" he teased. "Mrs. Hudson will be thrilled as soon as she realizes we're actually together.

John laughed and sat up, a weight dissipating from his chest; Sherlock looked like himself again, laughing and intolerably smug. (Although he was certainly a lot more naked than usual.)

After the chuckles had trickled away and reality came floating to the surface John found himself tucked against Sherlock's body; he felt far more comfortable than he should given his state of undress. Sherlock apparently felt the same, spidery arms wrapping loosely around John's shoulders. They sat there for a while, soaking each other in, until eventually Sherlock muttered, "Thank you."

John's chest swelled. The words had come biting out of Sherlock with such Sherlock-esque reluctance that it was right near perfect. "Of course," he replied.

"And, uh. Sorry for… _blue balling_ you." Sherlock looked disgusted at his own phrasing, face scrunched in disapproval; John grinned helplessly.

"That's okay." John snuggled closer. (_God, snuggling Sherlock Holmes – who would have thought?_) "We don't _always_ have to get ahead of ourselves. You're worth waiting."

"Hm." Sherlock ran an inquisitive finger between John's shoulder blades, sending a shiver down the good doctor's spine. When John looked up at him Sherlock stared back with calculating blankness. "Does that work on women, John? Showering them with body worship and then refraining from ravishing them? Is the hopeless Romeo method usually effective?"

John blinked. "No idea. Does it?"

(_Method? Only being honest, Juliet._)

Sherlock grunted. "I don't know how women work, John. What's working on _me_ is that your face is nuzzling against my abdomen." John flushed and sat upright instinctively, eyes wide; Sherlock's analyzing stare broke to a grin. "I'll be honest – the flattery is nice, too."

"Narc."

"Idiot." Then, after a pause: "Shall we move to the couch to watch Doctor Who? I don't have much data on the subject but I can draw the conclusion that bathroom floors aren't my choice area for affectionate proximity."

John snorted. (_Affectionate proximity? Oh, God, he's adorable._) "Cuddling. It's called cuddling."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I'm giving you BBC shows, you're giving me a pass on insufferable terminology."

John hesitated. "Tenth Doctor?"

"Sure."

Further hesitation.

"…Pants?"

"Absolutely not."

.

When Mrs. Hudson came home to find her boys asleep on the couch, tangled into a very naked, very loving embrace, she isn't surprised. She just tutted, turned off Doctor Who, threw a modest blanket over the pair, snapped a picture, and scurried off to collect on her bet with Mrs. Turner.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews would really help my self-esteem.<strong>_


	29. A Study in Recognition

**A/N: Oh MAN, I'm getting so much lovely feedback... you guys have no idea how happy that makes me. Just knowing that someone out there is enjoying my work brightens my life unfathomable amounts. Thanks so much to everyone who's been so kind as to review/story alert/favorite. And, um, enjoy the update! I might have a part two of sorts on this (a parallel piece with John) but that depends on whether or not my muse decides to cooperate (for once)...**

**Word Count: 1,400+**

**Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, mentions of Greg/Sherlock bromance (?and kind of one-sided romance if that floats your boat?)**

**Warning(s): Yet another bloody "character study." Discusses body worship, implications of sex, mentions of drugs, talk of death, slight implication of Sherlock being an atheist, and Mycroft's entirely unhelpful advice. Also, pirates.**

* * *

><p><strong>A Study in Recognition<strong>

* * *

><p>From the very beginning, Sherlock didn't care for people. It wasn't that they were intolerable, although they often were; he found them interesting, in fact… from a distance. He was an anomaly and well aware of it – he was a Holmes, after all. He was <em>born<em> to be an anomaly. An outcast. Avoiding serious violence from the less forgiving of his peers was difficult enough, much less making friends; he didn't even _want_ friends, especially if he'd have to change to keep them.

Sherlock was also aware that humans, by nature, thrive on contact with others. It was a discouraging thought; Sherlock not only defied this rule but countered it, avoiding human contact whenever possible. The few people he could tolerate long term caused him endless grief – they too often expected more than tolerance and an indifferent appreciation towards whatever benefits they provided. Sherlock never cut corners – they _knew _they weren't his _friends_ – but it seemed that people only liked being used if they thought there was feeling behind it. Rather than trying to change – or, worse yet, Play Normal as Mycroft did – Sherlock allowed himself to be cast away, retreating into the safe, cold world of studies. Science, literature, and crime – anything he could get his hands on, the more engaging the better; crime was a favorite topic for young Sherlock and he did a book report on a Jack the Ripper biography at age seven and (although Sherlock could never understand it from a personal standpoint) human nature on a chemical, inquisitive level fascinated him endlessly. He took to studying people from afar; people were like glass houses, diaries without locks, computers without passwords – easy to crack.

The idea of being a pirate appealed to many for obvious reasons: adventure, romanticism, the promise of treasure. For Sherlock it was leaving, climbing on a ship and never looking back; putting himself apart. Away from laws, from the cold stares of his mother, from the prying eyes of his brother, from strangers who understood next to nothing; sailing far from "normal" and escaping to the lawless sea. But even the fantasy of fleeing across the ocean failed to be far enough away and, so, Sherlock opted to hide within himself instead.

Sherlock detached himself at an early age from not only the people around him but also with himself. He blanked his mind to all but the transport his body provided, ignored the gnawing desires that festered and died within him. Some days, it was easy, habitual, technical, his brain subdued by whatever life provided him (books, adventures, cases); other days, it was impossible and he would stumble (cocaine, heroin, anything to keep himself quiet). Always, Sherlock stayed carefully separate until, eventually, John Watson appeared and pulled him back to Earth.

Sherlock would have liked to describe the occurrence as a crash, a collision, a great climactic event, but it wasn't. Sherlock didn't notice the change at first except that he cared for John quite a bit more than expected; it was nothing more than a subtle shift in his heart, easy to miss only because John slid in like the perfect puzzle piece, finally found among a box of scattered, useless bits. If anything he thought himself _more_ alienated for the near-instantaneous attachment to the doctor. John didn't try to fix him; he coaxed him back to the surface and declared him not broken to begin with. Without even trying John cracked Sherlock's armor, foiled years of work towards careful detachment; the feeling that came with this was unfamiliar, startling, but somehow Sherlock doesn't resent it. How can he? Love, it was quickly apparent, was quite the convincing preoccupation. However, it was only after the supposed death of The Woman that Sherlock recognized the Shift.

The problem was this: _other_ people. John, unlike Sherlock, enjoyed the company of many and cared a great deal about, well, everyone. At one point John had actually fretted aloud about Jim Moriarty, lamenting woes on his behalf (_What if he was abused as a child? What if nobody held him when he was a baby? He's so _smart_ Sherlock; you or Mycroft or anybody could have turned out just like that! Oh, dear, what if); _albeit, he had been drunk, but it still stood as was. Faced with the Good Doctor's boundless sympathy Sherlock found himself wondering as well.

Lestrade foremost: Lestrade who always smiled smugly during drug busts, Lestrade who helped him pull out of the grim days of addiction, Lestrade who'd seen a lost, drugged up teen with a genius IQ and given him a job (and a friend even if he didn't want it), Lestrade who never judged, Lestrade who opened his door on the multiple occasions when Sherlock was booted from a flat but too proud to go to his brother, Lestrade who was never afraid to tell him to get his shit together, Lestrade who never gave the bizarre experiments a second glance. Lestrade who, according to John, loved Sherlock a good awful lot and had apparently had the first name Greg all that time without Sherlock noticing.

That got him going on, wondering about land ladies and whether or not she had a first name other than "Mrs." Mrs. Hudson had been a soft spot for him since the beginning, of course, but he'd never really acknowledged it pre-John. She was quite the quirky sort of woman and, for all of her unassuming old-lady charm she was really quite sneaky and more than a bit smarter than she looked; for that, Sherlock more-than-tolerated her. The kicker, though, was this: she claimed Sherlock as her "boy," and she did it quicker (and with far more enthusiasm) than his own mother ever had and although Sherlock was reluctant to show it most days he couldn't stop himself from returning the love whole-heartedly. He didn't understand it, really, but John said she didn't mind his reluctance – that he was just "being a teenager about the whole thing." Sherlock couldn't recall having this problem with anyone as a teenager (or ever, for that matter) but decides not to question it.

Sherlock thinks about Molly, too. He'd never given her a second glance before, not really, simply noted her as a provider of useful materials and as a woman easily manipulated by counterfeit interest and empty compliments. He hadn't understood her infatuation or what it meant, not really, until John. There had been a period where John was dating women and, therefore, not Sherlock, and he all too often saw himself reflecting Molly's lost, hopeless eyes. He wondered if John was always as oblivious as he had been and he was quite abruptly grateful that his feelings were not so unrequited. Molly's not so bad, after all – it turns out she even matters. Sherlock finds himself hoping she'll move on and find a good man soon for entirely unselfish reasons.

The most unanticipated is discovering himself.

Sherlock viewed his physical self much like he viewed everyone else – useful in passing and annoying to deal with. Given the choice, Sherlock would have exchanged himself with an omniscient form in a heartbeat, opt to observe the world without the physical form to get in the way. Then came John, changing his mind as he did – John fell in love with Sherlock's mind, but he worshipped Sherlock's body; he found himself living for the nights when John pressed promises into his skin with fingers and lips and everything else. Sherlock looked in the mirror post-Watson and saw not just transport but something personal – _beautiful_. And he could no longer scoff at the term "make love" – if ever the term truly fit, it was in the hands of John Watson. Sherlock found himself eager to return the favor; if he ever doubted his success, he stopped when John was in his arms, whispering _I love you_ and Meaning It.

Mycroft is right – it's a weakness to love John, to love _anyone._ All hearts are broken and, in the way he chooses to live, the heartbreak will be frequent and ruthless. It doesn't matter. By the time Mycroft passes his warning to him Sherlock is already in too deep to even think of turning back; John offered again and again to live and die for Sherlock and Sherlock has no doubts that he would do the same. It was never a question – they are halves to a whole and, once bonded, survival apart is unfathomable; John is Sherlock's only anchor having shed his shell of apathy and without him Sherlock cannot imagine anything less than a full spiral into the sun.

He knows it's foolish, selfish even, but Sherlock looks up at the Big No One in the Sky each night and he prays to die first.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Review?<strong>_

_**Also, just a quick heads up - I'm going to begin work on a multi-chapter fic (i.e. not this collection) which will probably take up a good portion of the time I'd normally spend working on these things. This could either mean (A) you'll be getting a lot fewer chapters for a while or (B) you'll be getting a lot more weird-ass chapters because my muse likes to do exactly the opposite of what I tell it to. _**I'm honestly impressed I've gotten this far with as much consistency as I have, actually... hmm.**_ Either way, I just thought I'd send a heads up! xx -DC**_**  
><strong>


	30. Grass is Always Greener

**_THANK YOU:_ 100... 100 reviews... wow! I have to say I'm really shocked! I wasn't expecting much attention at all, since this fandom is a major talent-hog; I didn't even notice the review count at all until just today! Wow! Ok! Well! Thank you so much! Wow! Thank... thank you. Yes. I hope I continue to serve you well!**

**A/N: As for this chapter, I kind of have to apologize; I wish I had something better to celebrate the 100-mark. Oh well, I hope you enjoy this little thing. Also I apologize in advance if Harry's character seems "meh," I'm never sure how I want to write her.**

**Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, Watson family feels**

**Warning(s): stupid old sayings, Mrs. Watson, family angst, references to alcoholism and homophobia, weird abrupt ending, Harry Watson, and cussing. Also little!John and the usual chunks of insatiable fluff.**

* * *

><p><strong>Grass is Always Greener<strong>

* * *

><p>Before life in the Watson household sufficiently went to shit, Mrs. Watson had been an old saying enthusiast. She had her hands full with her forever-overworked husband, rowdy tom-boy of a daughter, and endlessly well-meaning trouble-promoter of a son – she could hardly be expected to think up her own words of wisdom. Her sayings for young Harriet varied boundlessly but frequently included such gems as "Don't count your chickens before they hatch" or "If God leads you to it, he will leave you through it!" (For an older Harry, there was always "God hates the sin, not the sinner," and not about the alcohol, either.) Neither of these sayings was of any real affect and would usually elicit nothing more than a grunt or a nod from Harry before being dismissed.<p>

For John, it was almost always this: "If your friend jumped off a bridge then would you too?" It was a well meaning set of words – John was fiercely loyal from an early age and followed his companions (sometimes Harry, sometimes buddies from school, sometimes stubborn old men who lived across the street) into all sorts of trouble – though it was more a question than anything. As a child, however, he never really answered his mother, more or less for fear of her reaction.

Somewhere along the way (perhaps in a special bundle pack with alcoholism) Harriet picked up on this, and although her sayings were more along the lines of "It's not illegal if I don't get caught" some of these more prominent questions stuck around. What she did not pick up, however, was an ability to intimidate John Watson. So when Harriet turned to him, irritation rolling off of her in waves, and asked, "If Sherlock jumped off a bridge then would you too?" John actually paused to search for a literal answer, eyebrows scrunching in thoughtful concentration.

After a moment, he responded. "Would there be water at the bottom?" he asked.

Harry's frown was both scathing and familiar. "No."

"Is there some sort of master plan Sherlock devised? Has he packed a parachute into some crevice of my body without my noticing? Some sort of obscure, perfectly timed safety net set to appear?"

"What? No."

John looked at the phone in his hand, running his thumb over the screen. Sherlock had texted him – he hadn't said so, hadn't had to; the look on his face when the phone buzzed had clued her in before he could – requesting (demanding) his presence down at Scotland Yard. John licked his lips, pocketed his phone, and gestured to the waitress before replying, decisively, "I'd still jump."

Harry curled her lip but failed to hide her smile in the process as she followed him out. By the time she made it out the door he was already gone, flinging himself into the nearest cab and taking off. Harriet Watson couldn't imagine living like that – risking it all for another person, throwing herself into the fray; it sounded like Hell to her – but she supposed her mother was right on another account. One man's trash is another man's treasure.

_That, or old sayings are fucking stupid._ Harry smiled at this thought and, pleased with herself, hailed herself a cab.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews...100... wow... am I wrong to be shocked to have this many? I <strong>_**am**_** shocked ...I would however like to have even more.**_


	31. Dreamology

**A/N: This one is more or less just an excuse to have Sherlock in that pose.**

**Word Count: 430**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, could be seen as one-sided I guess but it's not supposed to be.**

**Warning(s): Shameless fluff, aimless conversation rambles, and Star Trek. Contains acting-more-or-less-like-an-angry-twelve-year-old-with-a-crush!Sherlock.**

* * *

><p><strong>Dreamology<strong>

* * *

><p>"John, what do you dream about?"<p>

John looked up from his computer, eyebrows raised. Sherlock looked back at him looking for all the life of him like an eager little boy with more curiosity than he knew what to do with. Such were the sights John failed to resist; he shut the laptop. "We've already discussed this before, 'Lock. Afghanistan, usually. Why?"

Sherlock ignored his question, rolled his eyes, and flipped around in his chair so that his legs were kicked up in the air above him, head lolling towards the floor. "No, no, John. Not your nightmares."

"Oh?"

"I mean _dreams_. The good ones." Sherlock peered up at him, eyes clouded with thought. Despite his fool-hearty pose his eyes were perpetually lost in thought. John shifted in his seat; he didn't think he'd ever understand Sherlock – just moments before the question they'd been discussing The Office and whether or not they needed new curtains. Still, John sat back and considered the question, smiling listlessly as he did. Sherlock stared at him, waiting.

"I don't know," John said after a bit. "Most of my dreams aren't that vivid, just kind of… random things? I'm pretty sure last night's dream had something to do with a goat, but I can't really be sure." Sherlock frowned at him, clearly not satisfied with the answer. "Why? What does the almighty Sherlock Holmes dream about?"

Sherlock scowled briefly and turned away, reverting his gaze to the television screen. "Don't remember," he said, shortly. John frowned; had the detective not been flipped upside-down like a giant, pouting twelve year old, he might have been concerned by the sudden swing of moods. Instead, he just laughed.

"Can't remember? That's a first," said John, grinning.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. "Dreams are fantasies, John. There is no reason for me to attempt to commit them to memory any more than those ridiculous Star Trek episodes you force me to watch."

"…Sherlock, you remember every episode. You can quote Spock."

This was met by no reply. John sat and stared at him, perplexed for a good two minutes. When this staring method proved fruitless, Sherlock's eyes remaining firmly locked on the newest episode of The Price Is Right, John shrugged it off, tagged it under _My Roommate Is Bonkers, _and returned to his laptop.

Eventually John began his subconscious humming, a familiar tell that John was absorbed in his blogging once again; Sherlock looked up at him. Some day or another he'd have to tell John just what he dreamed about but, for now, he'd gaze.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sometimes I dream about reviews.<strong>_


	32. Bed Talk

**A/N: Sorry no update last weekend/Monday. I'm working on a longer fic as I said before. Anyway this one is silly and full of needless fluff and that's probably how these are going to be for a bit; the longer fic is angsty to the point that it's actually somewhat unbearable to write, so I need these little things to give myself a break; writing MORE thoughtful angst is going to be out of the question for a while, most likely. Anyway, enjoy?**

**Word Count: 730-ish**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, mentions of Mycroft/Lestrade, Mormor, sorta-Sherlock/Lestrade, non-romantic-Sherlock/others, and John/ladies**

**Warning(s): extensive talk of sex, dub-con, drugs, the word "penis," mentions of Anderson, Sherlock being sort of adorable, John being "vulgar," slight OOC-ness (they're very tired, OK, that's my excuse), slightly non-progressive view of transsexuals/transvestites (not bigotry), excessive fluff, and "candoodling." **

* * *

><p><strong>!SEMI-IMPORTANT NOTE!<strong>

_All dialogue fic. John's script is in bold._

* * *

><p><strong>Bed Talk<strong>

* * *

><p>"John, how many girls have you kissed?"<p>

**"Mmm, what?"**

"You heard me."

**"…"**

"John."

**"C'mon, 'Lock, it's four A.M. and we just had incredible, romping sex for an hour after two days of no sleep. Two days, Sherlock. That is 48 hours without a wink of fucking sleep."**

"…"

**"Stop poking me."**

"…"

**"…"**

"John."

**"…"**

"I've been waiting for two hours and sixteen minutes, John."

**"Impressive. Go to sleep."**

"_John._"

**"…"**

"…Seventeen minutes."

**"…"**

"Eighteen."

**"Forty-six."**

"…What?"

**"You heard me. Forty-six girls. Surprised?"**

"…"

**"Please don't look at me that way. It's not like I slept with them all."**

"You _wanted_ to."

**"…Yeah, most of them. Come on! I'm a man, 'Lock, what am I supposed to say? I'm an animal."**

"…"

**"What?"**

"_I'm_ a man."

**"You're barely human, love."**

"Thank you for that."

**"You enjoy it, secretly. Come on, smile. You know I'm right."**

"You aren't."

**"…"**

"Oh-"

**"…"**

"…"

**"Heh."**

"Ah! That isn't fair, John! You can't just halt my negative disposition with your lips!"

**"Sure I can, I just did. You were being silly anyway."**

"Mm…"

**"…"**

"How about men?"

**"What?"**

"How many males have you kissed?"

**"Um, besides you?"**

"Including me."

**"Three, once at some weird University party and one in the army when giving-a-hand got a little more intimate than expected."**

"Your views on intimacy never cease to amaze me."

**"Heh…. Well, I guess it would have actually been three and a half…"**

"...Who was the half?"

**"Transvestite, name was Sam. I don't mean she… he… was less of a person or didn't count as a man or anything, but he was always switching pronouns so I never really knew what to call it."**

"Oh."

**"…"**

"I've only kissed three people willingly. Romantically, anyway."

**"…"**

"…"

**"_Really?_"**

"Yes."

**"Wow."**

"I'm fairly aromantic, and asexual, so. Oh, don't look at me that way, I _told_ you you're an exception. Three is more than I'd even like to say. And I don't know if what I did with Seb technically counts as _romantic._"

**"Hm?"**

"I was pretty high and I didn't know what was really going on, to tell you the truth, at least until my pants were— John, you look murderous."

**"…The banker?"**

"Who else?"

**"I'm going to kill him."**

"Oh, please."

**"I'll _kill him, _Sherlock. That's _rape._"**

"I knew what I was doing."

**"You just said you were - it doesn't matter. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to murder him and it's going to be horrible and ugly and then you're going to get rid of all the evidence and get me off scot free."**

"The seriousness in your expression is troublesome, John."

**"Maybe I'm serious."**

"John…"

**"…"**

"John."

**"I'll consider sparing him. Who was the second?"**

"Um."

**"Um?"**

"…Telling you might make things a tad… awkward."

**"What, Irene?"**

"No."

**"Come on, tell me. It can't be—"**

"Lestrade."

**"…What, really?"**

"Yes, first year we knew one another. He was helping me through… everything, and we were almost friends and, well, he came over one night to check on me and that was that. Largely by accident, really – I was going through withdraw and anxious for some sort of grasp on the Universe, if you will, and he's… well."

**"Attractive? Foxy? Fucking hot?"**

"Yes, those things."

**"…_And?_"**

"Well, if you must know, we… candoodled a bit. I ended up shirtless, him half out of his trousers, but we remembered ourselves somewhere in there and ended up unable to take it seriously; he kept giggling and I kept trying to keep a straight face and… well, we basically forgot the whole predicament, thankfully. I assure you it was all very casual."

**"…"**

"We watched Will and Grace afterwards."

**"…"**

"John, you—are your pupils dialated?"

**"...I'm sorry, but… I just. The imagery."**

"Sorry?"

**"Yes, OK, I am aroused, stop looking at me like I'm some sort of deviant. You two are straight out of some sort of, I don't know. Beautiful people handbook or something. If you had a baby it would be a perfect specimen."**

"Impossible, John, not only genetically and physically but also because sleeping with Lestrade would be cheating on you—"

**"—damn straight! I meant _hypothetically_, like, if I was dead and watching from Heaven or something as you two got it on in my honor—"**

"—and also, _gross._"

**"Gross? Oh, please, don't give me that, you just agreed that he was attractive."**

"_Yes,_ but he's also slept with my brother."

**"…"**

"Still is, I assume, unless the recent weight gain has scared him away... which I doubt. Eugh."

**"…"**

"They're practically, you know."

**"…"**

"Married."

**"…"**

"I told you this."

**"No, you did not. I didn't even know they _knew_ each other."**

"Didn't I? You must have been out."

**"No."**

"Well. I thought it was obvious."

**"Ah."**

"…"

**"…Tell Mycroft I apologize."**

"No way. Mycroft doesn't know and even if Lestrade told him because they're into that forever-trust-you-with-all-of-my-deep-dark-secrets couple that's _not_ something I'm discussing with him. If you want to talk about your weird sexual fantasies with Mycroft do it on your own time."

**"…"**

"And you're attractive too, John."

**"Pah."**

"Oh, don't do the _oh, I'm forty, I'm past my prime_ thing, please. I'm almost that age myself and even if I wasn't, I love you and all your wrinkles and horrible taste in jumpers and lack of height. Especially that, actually, you fit perfect."

**"It's impossible not to adore you when you're cuddly."**

"I know. I use it to my advantage."  
><strong>"Bastard."<strong>

"…"

**"…"**

"Were any of them prettier than me?"

**"What?"**

"The _girls._ I mean—"

**"No. Nope. Not this again."**

"You're straight, you can be honest."

**"Sherlock you're—"**

"John—"

**"Shut up."**

"Wh—"

**"…"**

"…"

**"…"**

"— _John, _I—"

**"…"**

"…"

**"Kissed into submission yet?"**

"…Not quite."

**"Really? Okay…"**

"…"

**"…"**

"…"

**"…You're perfect, okay?"**

"Hmph. Believe what you want."

**"I will. Trust me, after sex with you vaginas aren't even mildly appealing in comparison."**

"Vulgar, John."

**"Sorry."**

"Well, all vulgarity aside, I'm glad you were my first. It's, what did you call it? World-bending?"

**"Heh, well, I'm glad you _weren't_ mine. Not like that, just – trust me, awkward sex between virgins is far from mind-blowing or world-bending or whatever, I assure you. That first girl was disappointed."**

"…"

**"Oh, don't. And for the record, I finished her off, I'm not a total dick. She was pleased."**

"You are terribly, terribly vulgar. Just… gross."

**"You love me."**

"Yes."

**"…"**

"I love you."

**"I know, 'Lock. I love you too. Enough about girls, OK?"**

"Okay."

**"…"**

"…"

**"Hmm, can we please sleep now? Kissing is nice, but…"**

"Fine. May I lay on our chest?"

**"Since when do you ask for things?"**

"True."

**"…"**

"…"

**"…"**

"…"

**"Sherlock?"**

"…"

**"Sweetheart, are you awake?"**

"…"

**"Sherlock, love, come on…"**

"Mmn, wha…?"

**"Sorry but… shoulder, a bit."**

"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry."

**"S'okay."**

"Should I kiss it better?"

**"What?"**

"…"

**"…Oh. That's rather sweet."**

"Yes, well. Do you want me off?"

**"Nah, just… there."**

"You smell like mango."

**"…Thank you?"**

"Yes."

**"How tired are you?"**

"I think… a bit tired."

**"Exhausted, then."**

"Mmm."

**"Goodnight, 'Lock."**

"Goodnight, John."

**"…"**

"…"

**"Please tell me that wasn't your phone."**

"I'd be lying."

**"Auugghh…."**

"…"

**"No… _baby come back… baby come back to meee…_"**

"Don't call me baby."

**"Pop culture, love."**

"Don't care."

**"…"**

"…"

**"Who is it?"**

"Mycroft. Legwork."

**"Noooo…"**

"…"

**"…Oh, welcome back."**

"You're really very warm, John."

**"What'd you tell Mycroft?"**

"'Bugger off you fat lazy turd,' if memory serves me."

**"I love you."**

"Hm, I know."

**"…"**

"…"

**"That Lestrade thing is still weird."**

"Me, or?"

**"No, Mycroft. What you said about them, I just… I don't know. Lestrade's such a normal bloke and he just seems so… so…"**

"Cold? Unfeeling? Manipulative? Freakish by comparison?"

**"O-Oh. I guess we're… and they…"**

"Yes."

**"Sorry."**

"Don't be."

**"…"**

"Lestrade is good for him, I think. Don't tell him I said so."

**"Well, we all need someone."**

"I suppose that's true. A partner, if you will. I've got you."

**"Damn straight."**

"Hmm."

**"And Moriarty has Sebastian Moran!"**

"You do smile _far_ too much about that, John. They _are_ trying to kill us."

**"Yeah, yeah, whatever. You have to admit—"**

"—no, I don't—"

**"—that it's kinda cute in a bizarre—"**

"—_cute?—"_

**"—murderous sort of way."**

"…"

**"Don't look at me like that. There's someone out there for everyone, even, you know. Homicidal maniacs."**

"Maybe."

**"_Definitely._ Even Anderson."**

"Gross."

**"And Sally."**

"…Mildly acceptable…"

**"…"**

"...And Molly?"

**"Huh?"**

"Molly Hooper. There's someone for her?"

**"For her, too, Sherlock."**

"Especially for her, should be it."

**"There's a real sweetheart underneath that annoying dick, isn't there?"**

"You're an annoying dick under all that sweetheart, aren't you?"

**"It's a gift, yeah."**

"…"

**"…Nng."**

"…"

**"…"**

"…_Ah?"_

**"No, no… I'm tired, you're tired, we're spent. We can snog all we want tomorrow."**

"Kill joy."

**"I'll be a bigger kill joy if you don't get your hands away from my groin."**

"…"

**"_Sherlock._"**

"Meh."

**"…"**

"If you're going to turn away can we at least flip it?"

**"Mm?"**

"I want to be, uh, you know. That silly metaphor? _The little spoon._"

**"Damn, you're adorable, okay, fine. Flip."**

"…"

**"…Your feet are cold."**

"Yours are warm."

**"…"**

"…"

**"Stop scooting your butt against my crotch, Sherlock."**

"You're warm. I'm cuddling."

**"Yes, well, you're upsetting my penis."**

"Yes, well. It's a hobby of mine."

**"Really now?"**

"Mmm."

**"…"**

"…"

**"…"**

**"Okay, sleep for real now. I'm going to die at the surgery tomorrow."**

"Be extra rude to Sarah for me."

**"You wish."**

"Hm. Goodnight, John."

**"Sweet dreams."**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews would be spectacular.<strong>_


	33. On Loathing and Therapeutic Vandalism

**A/N: So this isn't _ technically_ a Johnlock story, but it discusses it enough for me to have an excuse to shove it in here. You'll have to excuse me for this one - I saw a bit of fanart on Tumblr and I had theinexplicable urge to write this. And, if you were wondering, I have these feelings for Anderson which have pushed so far into hatred that I've jumped to proverbial fence into this weird affection. I love to hate him, is what I'm saying. (I have trouble actually disliking most characters, OK?) Anyways, enjoy.**

**Word Count: 1,100+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, Sally/Anderson, inferred Sherlock/Lestrade bromance, and a teeny-tiny-squitny-bit of Anderson and Sherlock seeing each other slightly OK human beings.**

**Warning(s): RED ALERT, RED ALERT, ANDERSON CENTRIC (not for the weak of heart)! Also, hateful!Sally, mentions of previous youth!homophobic!Anderson, angst, self-hatred, and vandalism. Also, Dimmock.**

* * *

><p><strong>On Loathing and Therapeutic Vandalism<strong>

* * *

><p>It was common knowledge that Anderson hated Sherlock Holmes. It was true: he really, <em>really<em> could not stand the man. (He hated him even more than his elusive first name, which is a lot.) Anderson hates him for the obvious reasons – contaminating his crime scenes, calling him out on his adultery problem, making him look like a fool on a regular basis, planting that seed that made Sally Donovan stop seeing him, manipulating Lestrade so easily, (probably) being the one that started that damn dinosaur rumor, and generally being a twat. To be frank, Sherlock Holmes was the bane of Anderson's existence.

There were limits to his hatred, however. Did he want him off his crime scene? Yes. Out of his personal life? Definitely. Behind bars? If he deserved it, with relish. Out of England entirely? You wouldn't see him complaining.

Dead?

_Well, he is a sociopath._

Against all will Anderson 's mind palms at a memory. His memory is not the best of the bunch (he does not fool himself with notions of grand intelligence) but it's these images that he remembers with great, reluctant clarity: That doctor John Watson on the ground, wuffed out by a punch to the gut and a cloth to the face; he'll be fine, of course he will, but when Anderson looked up at Sherlock Holmes it was as if the world had ended. It was only for a second, barely a glimpse of horrid, raw emotion – _Oh, God_ – before the usual calculating smirk reappeared; it was brief enough that Anderson is shocked that he caught it at all. He's almost convinced he imagined it. But Anderson _did_ see it and once he's seen beneath the mask it was impossible to forget that it was there.

_Sociopath? No he's not._ Anderson shuddered; it was always these thoughts, no matter how hard he tried, haunting him against his will.

John was the big issue. The wild card that threw the routine off its track, broke the easy cycle of use-and-be-used between the Yard and the genius – the genius and _everyone._ Anderson tried to hate John by default at first – the friend of an enemy is an enemy by association, as it were – but it turned out to be impossible. The doctor lived and breathed Likeable Guy; even Sally's bitterness faded to pity. Anderson couldn't even do that – pity. It was easy for Sally to do that, all she saw was the one side, the love, singular, unrequited, that radiated off the doctor in near-visible waves in the presence of someone who could not comprehend (and, if he could comprehend, reviled). It would have been easier to see it that way, but no – Anderson had seen the way Sherlock looked at him, had taken a peek under the mask and found, against all odds, love.

A younger, stupider Anderson might've found it gross, honestly. But he's past caring if they're both men and (despite his efforts to the contrary) the way John looks at Sherlock, like he's the reason for living right there before God and anybody, like he's the whole Universe compacted into one beautiful person, like he's everything and more, triggers nothing worse than jealousy. Anderson finds himself even sort of rooting for them, in his own way, placing his bets in the "shagging" pool and exchanging glances with Lestrade when Dimmock and Donovan exchange scorn.

So, yes – Anderson feels guilty about the Fall.

In fact, he feels more than guilty – he's plagued by thoughts of it constantly, riddled with awful emotion over the incident. Perhaps rightfully so, he thinks. His scorn for Sherlock honestly hadn't put much play into the way he reacted to the suspicions – he was being a good cop, following evidence leads, his _job_ – but he admits that it made it easier to swallow; he wakes up some nights suspecting Sherlock was right about him. He really must be a fool to be so easily deceived by Moriarty's plots. And he knows that's just what they were – if he knows anything about Gregory Lestrade he knows he wouldn't try to clear Sherlock's name if he wasn't sure and, even if it would be far easier to think otherwise, Anderson realizes with painful clarity that Sherlock being a fraud simply didn't add up.

Of course, Anderson realizes much too late, too slow. When John punched him after the funeral, he was almost glad.

Anderson feels sick thinking about it. And think about it he does. The guilt eats him alive for months without an outlet, clawing out of his chest with nowhere to go. There's nothing to do now; there's nothing he can do for the dead detective, certainly (he wouldn't have wanted his help even if he was still alive) and John doesn't want anybody's pity, least of all Anderson's. He tried to discuss it with Donovan, once, late one night. She laughed at him – "_Don't get soft over that freak _now._ John will get over it."_ – and, when that failed to silence him, shoved him out of bed and told him to go home to his apartment if he was going to be a pussy. His empty apartment. When his wife walked out of him, he hadn't chased her. (She did deserve better than him didn't she?)

The hatred inside of Anderson builds more and more each day. He very nearly pulls a Watson on when he tried to get an interview with him – _"Are you happier now that Mr. Holmes is out of the picture?" _and _"You were part of the investigation that brought him to justice; do you wish you'd acted earlier?"_ and _"How do you feel about the statements recently released by your superior? Do you think it's possible his name will be cleared?"_ He's lucky that he's carrying groceries at the time or he might have spent the night behind bars for assault. He hears these things every day and can say nothing; he's not like Lestrade, he can't risk his job, his reputation, for Sherlock Holmes. It's a matter of sink or swim and, to be truthful, Anderson doesn't know how he should be reacting anyway.

That night he found it – the outlet.

Honestly, he really shouldn't be happy about finding graffiti on his apartment building. It's vandalism, after all – he's supposed to be a cop. Yet there he is, grinning like a maniac over five hastily scrawled words.

_**I believe in Sherlock Holmes.**_

Anderson stared at it for a long time, mouth dry and grinning until he's laughing irrationally. It's good, he decided – the people are turning on the press, _finally_, as the "facts" on Rich Brook started not to add up. It isn't much, this small cult following, but it's something and it's growing and when the graffiti is covered up by gang slogans the following week Anderson comes back with a hoodie and some paint.

When Sherlock comes back from the dead, the first thing he says to Anderson is that he's a moron. But Anderson swears he's smiling a little, too. Not much, but something.


	34. Because Cardigans

**A/N: Dear lord I have no idea where this one came from. I actually seriously apologize for this one. I wrote it during school hours and then edited it (vaguely) during detention, in which I also read an 100 page fanfiction called Chameleon (which I encourage you all to read by the way, it's Johnlock) that I cleverly printed out. The detention was for a stupid reason, by the way, I promise I'm not a a rebel or whatever. ANYWAY this fic is really weird and long for no reason and has no real plot. Whatever. Enjoy it.**

**Word Count: 2,700 words of bullshit**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, John/some bitch named Kathy**

**Warning(s): Really offensive language rhyming with baggot and tigger which actually physically pained me to type, talk of homophobia, cussing, mentions of sex and "experimenting" with sexuality. Also, possessive/protective!John, really-quick-to-move-on-from-some-girlfriend!John, sort-of-closet!Sherlock, cardigans, inexcusable amounts of fluff, and traumatized cabbies. Additionally I did the dialogue weird. Dunno why.**

* * *

><p><strong>Because Cardigans<strong>

* * *

><p>John broke up with his latest girlfriend. It was obvious he'd dumped her – not the other way around, like usual; he stomped his feet on the way up the stairs and slung his coat on the couch rather than hanging it on the hook. It was strange – last Sherlock checked, John had actually liked this one, it had been obvious in the crease of his forehead and the cheeky little smile he put on every time she rang him. Sherlock fought a pleased smile up at John as he passed him.<p>

"Break it off with Vivian?"

He knows that isn't her name.

"Kathy. But, yeah."

The stomping dimmed to little more than a heavy plod as John hurried about through the kitchen. Sherlock almost voiced a request for tea, but relented – there was no need. John always made two cups.

"Good. She was boring."

A clatter of mugs against the counter – John was genuinely upset, then, but by what? The break up? Surely not, seeing as he'd instigated it. Before Sherlock could attempt to draw any clear conclusions John righted himself and spoke, voice laced with a startling quantity of loathing.

"She called you a faggot."

The word rips out of John's throat as if causing him physical pain to utter. Sherlock shifted in his seat, any hope of concentrating on the boring cold case file Lestrade sent over fading out instantaneously.

"Oh. And that upset you?"

_Dangerous territory, this conversation, don't you think?_ Sherlock couldn't quite tell if it was his subconscious in his mind or Mycroft but he felt rather sure that they might just be the same voice.

"No shit it upsets me, Sherlock."

John stalked into the living room and Sherlock glanced up at him; he was wearing a cardigan, carrying two cups of tea, and absolutely radiating with rage. It's a strange sight, but... compelling? Sherlock was caught on this thought when John handed him his cuppa; their fingertips slid together in the pass, a casual, completely normal bit of contact – Sherlock cursed himself silently for even taking note of it. John settled into his chair, eyebrows scrunched.

"You're absolutely right. People are morons, Sherlock. Absolute _fucking_ morons."

What slipped out next was accidental and while it should be heavily noted that Sherlock Holmes generally thinks before he speaks and makes very few mistakes, this was one of them:

"Well, at least the insult is somewhat accurate."

John went statue still, tea making it only half way to his lips and hovering there. Sherlock kicked himself internally and scrambled to right his words, only to have more Not Good slip out. (John has that effect on Sherlock sometimes, when he isn't careful. Caring is not, after all, an advantage.)

"She could have called me stupid, or psychotic, or a deviant. That would make her both rude and incorrect. Calling me a f—"

"_Don't._"

Sherlock flinched; John looked positively murderous. The rage might have actually been intruding (_Attractive? No, stop_.) had it not been partially directed at him. The veins on John's neck were strained and visible even at their distance; it was clear he was holding back even with the ire seeping through his words.

"Don't even say that word, 'Lock. I don't ever want to hear that word in your voice, it's… It's _wrong_. So, so very not good, do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded – how could he not – but…

"Why?"

"Because it's _awful; _I don't care if you're gay, Sherlock, it's really, _really_ fine, but calling anybody _that,_ even yourself… _that_ is another thing. It's an insult. It shouldn't be, but it is. It's the same difference between calling someone black and… and a _nigger_."

Another repulse-word – John spat it out like it was on fire. Sherlock shrank a little.

"Right. Bit not good, then. I didn't mean to upset you."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, I just… I'm sorry. Sister, you know?"

Sherlock nodded, peering into his tea. Then, abruptly, John came to a full stop, a surprised little noise coming from his throat as he reworked the conversation in his head. A sense of both dread and relief fell over Sherlock; when he looked up again John was blushing a bit.

"So you're… gay, then?"

A pause.

"I don't know, actually. Yes, I think."

Not a lie – Sherlock didn't know if he was gay, per se. He'd only been interested in sex with one person in particular but that person was, in fact, a man. Did that make him gay? Uninterested in labels, Sherlock hadn't ever done research on the topic; his nose wrinkled. John gave him a thoroughly boggled look straight off the But-It's-The-Solar-System! tree. Sherlock blushed hatefully – he couldn't help it. Having thoughts like that right in front of the man in question; it was petty, he thought, ridiculous even, but he couldn't control the remarkably useless response his body insisted upon. That is, turning pink.

"You… don't know? Sherlock, no offense, but you're in your thirties, how do you not know?"

"I _am_ allowed to be ignorant on certain topics, John. Do not assume I am clever in every spectrum of intelligence, you have plenty of evidence that I am not."

John sat upright, perturbed. Sherlock couldn't read his thoughts, although he tried to (John was a bit of a blind spot, irritatingly enough.) but they must have been embarrassing because his face was taking on the appearance of a tomato. Blushing was significantly more fun to observe than to experience, Sherlock thought.

"Haven't you ever…"

Vaguely vulgar hand motions joined the parade. Sherlock scowled.

"_No._ No, I have not. I know the mechanics and have a basic grasp on the cause and effect of intercourse but I've never engaged first hand, no. I never understood the appeal."

"Not even—"

"No."

"—I don't know, heavy petting? A casual at a party? Something?"

Sherlock gave John the kind of look that shot straight through one's chest. _No._ John lowered his gaze to his tea again but made no move to drink it, looking simultaneously shameful, baffled, and (oddly enough) vaguely hopeful.

"You've never even… wanted to?"

Hesitation – Sherlock put the cup down on the table, deliberately keeping his gaze on the opposite wall. He was a good actor normally – it came with the job – but he knew John knew him oh-too-well and his usual masks of indifference and arrogance struggled for survival under the good doctor's scrutiny. The blushing, similarly, did not ebb.

"It has crossed my mind on occasion."

_Recent occasion. _Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye (an accident, again with the God-forsaken accidents) but John didn't catch the look, much less the suggestion. He was busy staring red-faced into his tea. _Oh. I've made him uncomfortable._ Sherlock fought the urge to sigh.

"With, uh – with men? I mean, it's all fine, Sherlock, I just."

Would it be too obvious to say "A man"? Sherlock frowned and said it anyway, gaze carefully set on the skull for fear of gazing at John too obviously. The skull grinned back. _No way out of this one, you know,_ it whispered, sounding pleased and a good bit like Lestrade.

"Oh."

John sounded (and felt) very much like a man in a maze. He knew, on some level, what was on the other side, but had no clue how he was supposed to go about getting to the conclusion. Eventually Sherlock looked at him and, meeting his gaze, John apparently decided plowing straight through the walls was the best method.

"You mean me, don't you?"

Sherlock very nearly squeaked, but he certainly had more self control than that.

"Ah, yes. Clearly. Your deductions skills are _improving_, John."

John's name came out an octave too high and was quickly followed by an escape hatch:

"It's just a fleeting notion, John – perfectly natural, isn't it? No need to look so… red."

"So you mean you aren't sure."

"I identified as asexual before so, yes. I'm… confused."

Sherlock very nearly gagged; admitting confusion was far, far worse than admitting he was gay for John. Was he gay for John? Sherlock's toes curled. _Are we really having this conversation?_

John looked fidgety and nervous, a strange sight on a grown man, much less an ex-army doctor, but also unbearably cute. _Cute?_ Sherlock didn't have time to work through that thought before John was up out of his chair.

"Okay, tell me if I'm overstepping or something but… do you want me to help?"

Sherlock's heart climbed into his throat.

"Help?"

Something predatory flickered through John's eyes; it was gone in an instant, so quickly that Sherlock very nearly missed it, but he didn't, and Sherlock felt an abruptly primal feeling prickling at the back of his spine. He felt trapped by his gaze, which was disturbing not only because it was irrational but because Sherlock found he rather liked it.

"Yeah, help. You're confused, so that just means you need to do research. An experiment, I mean. University stuff, you know."

Sherlock wondered just what John's experience at University had been. Mostly, Sherlock's had consisted of schoolwork, cocaine, and avoiding other humans as much as possible, venturing out of his dorm room only for the occasional supply-run or to go to class. Certainly it had nothing to do with gentle, blushing expressions or determined dark blue eyes that peered down at him; even less to do with quickening heartbeats or an inability to move one's gaze from another's mouth. When John licked his lips Sherlock very nearly lost it.

"Okay?"

"Oh, yes. Enlighten me."

Sherlock sounded (and looked) far more sarcastic and cocky than he was by a long shot. John seemed to sense this and shuffled in place for a moment before he bent down, knees leaning on the chair between Sherlock's legs. The position should have been awkward – why wasn't it awkward? A startling, lazy smile crawled over John's lips.

"Relax."

Sherlock tried. John's lips twitched in a slight nervous tick.

"Just… close your eyes, okay?"

"Okay."

John brushed his hands through Sherlock's hair and down to rest on the back of his neck. His thumbs pressed against the skin at the top of Sherlock's jaw, the gentle pressure sending a strange sensation through him. A multitude of urges descended to battle – _open your eyes kiss him push him away let out a noise a moan a yell a hum pull him closer punch him in the jaw kiss him all over his stupid face _– but Sherlock pushed them away and focused his attention on the sensation of John's breath on his lips and the callous on John's hands on his face.

It should be said that Sherlock had, of course, kissed before. He was a grow man after all. But it had been different then, calculated, expected, controlled – nothing more than a play at normalcy or twist for manipulation or, on very few occasions, a half-hearted swing at something that was decidedly not his area. Every time the attraction had been nil (for Sherlock, anyway) and he had been in control, plotting each and every bit of action, never losing himself to the partner in question. It was never this, never –

"You're thinking too much."

"Am I? Here I was, thinking that you were thinking too little."

The last breathy trembling of laughter tinkled against Sherlock's lips and John is still smiling when he leant down to press his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock sucked in a breath (through his nose, as his mouth is otherwise occupied), heart skipping a beat; it isn't as if he sees fireworks, but something definitely exploded. _Oh._ John's hands curled to caress Sherlock's jaw, holding his face as if he might fall out of his grasp at any moment.

Kissing John Watson was nothing like Sherlock had anticipated. It was cautious and careful, pausing for long intervals between movements, constantly awaiting that silent OK to proceed; it's awkward, perhaps, but Sherlock is grateful because _damn_ his heart might just burst out of his chest and make a mess of things if John wasn't careful. Sherlock's mind spun, frantically collecting data, recording the multitude of surprising sensations the near-chaste contact is giving him – the movements of John's mouth on his, the occasional brush of John's nose, the slowly fading smile on John's lips on his, the unfamiliar heat growing in his core, the gentle caress of John's hands. It occurred to him that he was overwhelmed to the point of not responding only after John pulled away, biting his lip.

"Sherlock?"

It took Sherlock a moment to come back to Earth but when he did John was still rubbing his thumbs over Sherlock's cheekbones and staring at him with a dubiously patient sort of heartbreak painted over his face. Sherlock blinked once, twice.

"Oh."

Another blink, deliberate and slow, the butterflies in his chest quickly dying in the fire building there. A smile – smirk? – drew over Sherlock's mouth.

"Yes."

John's eyebrows scrunched. _He thinks I was rejecting him. How cute._

"Absolutely."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Vague, some people need more than one word to comprehend meanings."

"Really?"

"Really."

Sherlock kissed him so hard that John, startled, slid and fell off the chair completely. Sherlock was quick to follow and they tumbled bodily into each other, lips parting only to accompany hitting the ground and the painful clacking of teeth against teeth and skull against hardwood.

"Ouch."

"Shut up, John."

No argument.

The so called experiment's conclusion ended up needing to be proven-and-re-proven for almost an hour, quickly going from tentative to ravenous. Discoveries were made: Sherlock that kissing was really quite a bit better than breathing and John deciding being pinned to t he floor by another man was a lot less uncomfortable than originally anticipated. It was fairly chaste considering, most clothing staying put, but they were both more than content to take it slow. Had they had more time they might have taken it slow all the way to the bedroom, but alas:

They broke apart when the Wife came calling, shrieking from across the room. Sherlock hovered over John for a moment, taking in his best friend's frazzled, goofy grin and bruised lips before bounding away to check his phone.

"Further ministrations will have to wait, John. The game is on!"

John sat up, ruffled.

"A case, then?"

"Yes! Fix your collar, John, your hickey is visible."

Pause.

"Actually, don't. I like it."

Sherlock swept past him and snatched his previously discarded scarf off the floor. John scrambled up and after him, cheeks flushed as he pulled down his cardigan mid-stride. While his clothes were still on they were still quite a bit rumpled and his hair… oh, Sherlock's hair was just as bad. It would be obvious what they had been doing. Sherlock found the thought not entirely unappealing. John hurried after him to the door, eyes wide.

"W-Wait!"

Sherlock paused, back to him.

"'Lock, are we…?"

Hesitation. Sherlock peered over his shoulder, eyebrows arched. John stared back, stiff with indecision. Sherlock faltered, a bit – any and all uncertainties were wiped from Sherlock's mind now, but still he wasn't sure how to respond.

"I don't care for labels, John."

"No?"

"No."

No hesitation. John took five almost-angry strides forward, grabbed Sherlock by his forearms, and pulled him to eye level. It was an uncomfortable way to stand, back forcefully arched to accommodate John's height, but nowhere near as uncomfortable as the intensity in John's eyes, a discomfort outmatched only by the excitement.

"I don't want a label, Sherlock, I want a confirmation. Call me a traditionalist, but being vague about this isn't going to work for me. Are you mine or aren't you?"

Sherlock's chest clenched. Well, when you worded it like _that:_

"Yours."

"Good."

John pulled Sherlock into a brief, crushing hug before pulling away and hurrying out the door, pausing only to pat Sherlock on the bum on the way past, grinning from ear to ear. Sherlock stared after him, lit up with a pleasant sort of shock.

John twisted around to waggle his eyebrows at him.

"What're you waiting for? Crime scenes, remember?"

Ah, yes. The Work did come before arousal, didn't it? John did have this down.

"Excellent."

The unfortunate cabbie was quick to discover that, although relationships did come second to the Work, the Work did not include transportation to-and-from the flat, even if it did mean they nearly got kicked out for indecent exposure. Would have, too, but you know. John looked pretty intimidating in that cardigan.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Review?<strong>_

_**Also, if anyone is curious, progress on longer fic is slowing significantly - I'm a bit stuck. Ah, well, it'll be out eventually. Ta!**_


	35. Of Husbands and Heart Monitors

**A/N: I just want to throw out a big, huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed recently with an attached apology - for whatever reason it isn't letting me to reply to a lot of your reviews. I'm not sure why, but I'll be sure to respond to each of them personally whenever I get the chance. Thank you for everything, guys! I have no idea what I'm doing to make all of you so happy but I hope I continue to do so!**

**Word Count: 1,000+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): vague mentions of violence, light injuries, brief references to TRF, casual prods at suicidal probabilities, and an emotionally backwards Sherlock (or, rather, a Sherlock Sherlock). Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Of Husbands and Heart Monitors<strong>

* * *

><p>The heart monitor was driving John crazy. It was a shrill, irritating reminder that he'd screwed up and nearly gotten himself killed. Again. And, more importantly, he'd almost gotten Sherlock killed. Again. The bomb threatkidnapping combo case had ended in a horrible cliché of John cutting a wire. The wrong wire. Despite it having been a fifty/fifty guess-chance John cursed himself for it – if it had been Sherlock, they would have gotten out of there unscathed, but instead Sherlock was busy whipping a gun at the two men who put the bomb there in the first place and the whole thing went to shit.

John sighed and screwed his eyes shut. He had a strong, incessant urge to complain (about the monitor, about the pain, about the damn florescent lighting) but he was determined to be a good patient. After all, he was a doctor – he knew how exasperating the job could be.

Speaking of exasperating.

"John, you have outdone yourself with idiocy."

John opened his eyes in time to get a face full of Sherlock Holmes. The kiss was chaste and quick, more of a greeting than anything, before the detective's skinny hands were sliding and groping over John's body, physically cataloguing every bruise, injury, bandage, and vital sign, choosing to check every pulse point rather than trust the heart monitor still bleeping on the opposite side of the bed. "People will talk," John mumbled, but he doesn't swat him away – this frantic life-check is routine by now and it's comforting, somehow, feeling Sherlock's hands trace life over his skin.

After a moment of rest on John's neck, fingertips pressed into his pulse, Sherlock's hands pulled away. "People always talk, John. What they neglect to draw appropriate conclusions about is how absolutely stupid you are," Sherlock said, and he meant: _You scared me._

"Oh, sod off," John said as he pulled Sherlock closer. Sherlock had gotten out of the explosion in relatively good shape, left only with a cut above his right eye and minor burns across the back of his legs; he'll heal up fast and while it does heal it won't hinder him. John is far worse off (broken ankle, concussion, scattered burns, a few broken ribs – he'll have a few scars) but still he sucked in a breath at the sight of the head-wound. _My fault._ When John tackled Sherlock out of the way of the explosion, intending to bodily shield him from harm, the detective hit his head across a pillar on their way down.

And then, of course, the building collapsed on them. It certainly could have been worse.

"That was incredibly reckless," Sherlock said. "And brilliant, I suppose." He closed his eyes and allowed John to trace his thumb over the gash on his forehead, causing an almost pleasant sting and a nameless warmth to gather in his chest. Well, not nameless – love's the word for it, and even if Sherlock can't quite comprehend it himself John knew it and reflected it back double. John sat up against the pain to brush his lips against the injury, smile tugging over his mouth.

"Never do it again," Sherlock whispered. "If you die I may never forgive you."

John chuckled and laid back against his pillow again, slightly pale from strain, both from the broken ribs making movement/breathing/everything painful and the struggle against sleep. Morphine is a wonder-drug. "Bit of a nil point there, don't you think, Mr. Holmes?"

"Would you _want_ to leave me widowed, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock's smiled at him despite himself, blue eyes (yes, they were definitely blue today) dancing impishly. John subconsciously pawed at his ring finger, sliding a knuckle over the cool metal. Yes; his husband didn't need to tell him he loved him, John had proof on his finger, every day. John flushed a bit at the thought, then rolled his eyes.

"No, suppose I wouldn't, would I? You'd probably forget to eat."

_Not forget. Just wouldn't,_ Sherlock thought, but wouldn't say, because he knew the thoughts were a Bit Not Good and if John did actually die Sherlock would prefer he go believing that Sherlock won't be right behind him as soon as possible, one way or another. After all, John didn't give up, didn't off himself during those three dark years that they never talk about, don't ever want to talk about again; it was a nice notion to keep alive, that Sherlock would return the favor, even if it was a false one.

"Well, either way, fuck you. We caught the guy, didn't we?"

Sherlock chuckled lightly and, with a small nod of confirmation, turned to slide into the hospital bed. John scooted to accommodate him, although Sherlock ended up more-or-less on top of him anyways, long limbs wrapped around John's short frame. It's a comfortable position, although it shouldn't be; they both ignore the blushing, scuttling nurse in the doorway out of habit now until she walks away.

Careful doctor fingers traced random patterns up and down Sherlock's neck, an absentminded little affection that quickly pools in Sherlock's chest. "You should sleep," Sherlock said, catching John's other hand and drawing it to his lips.

John smiled, eyes drooping hopefully at the thought. "Will you stay here?" he asked. Fingers laced through Sherlock's hair and pulled ever-so-gently. Sherlock nodded – he hates to admit it, but he's tired too, and he can't fight the sedatives forever even if he does have a remarkable tolerance level for the stuff. "Good," said John. "I don't think I can stand to be alone with that fucking heart monitor any longer."

And that was that. John pressed his lips into Sherlock's hair and fell asleep that way, chest swelling with rumbling content. Sherlock didn't ask about the monitor, but he took John's word on it and shot the machine a dirty look before settling into his husband's warmth.

They were both fast asleep when the doctor came back and remain that way through several nurses, a janitor, and Lestrade; no one has the heart to wake them.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews?<strong>_

_**Fun Fact: I can't spell the word "monitor" to save my life; I have to spell-check every time.**_


	36. Bossing

**A/N: So I'm watching Supernatural pretty hardcore now, although I'm jumping on the bandwagon really late... oh well. Better late than never. Anyway, that was completely irrelevant - enjoy this bit.**

**Word Count: 1,000+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, and also Lestrade is everyone's bro**

**Warning(s): Greg being Greg. Brief implication of BSDM themes, pasta that isn't pasta, thievery, and Sherlock bent over.**

* * *

><p><strong>Bossing<strong>

* * *

><p>"John, get my phone, would you? I need you to text Mrs. Hudson."<p>

"Where is it?"

"Pants. Back pocket."

"Seriously, Sherlock?"

"Yes. Tell her to put the Tupperware in the fridge. Don't tell her there's fingers in it, though."

John looked up with a sigh. Gregory felt bad for the bloke sometimes – he almost expected the doctor to just snap one day and tell Sherlock to fuck off and do it himself. But just like nearly every time John rolled his eyes, got to his feet, and (not without a good amount of embarrassment) shoved his hand into Sherlock's back pocket.

Greg shook his head with a bewildered smile as John crossed the room with the phone, pecking away at the keys. "I'm going to text Sarah too, okay? I've got to let her know I won't be into the surgery today… again."

"Yes, yes." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, looming over the gathered evidence files on the table. "Get on with it, then."

John did. Gregory strolled up to stand beside Sherlock, peering over his shoulder. "Honestly, you boss him around a lot, don't you? You could stand to be a bit nicer."

"Well, he's never asked me to be courteous to him in any sort of whole-hearted way." Sherlock was clearly only half way paying attention as he replied, poking through each file with a look of near disgust. "Honestly, how _do_ you people function? Almost all of this is completely irrelevant."

Greg ignored the jab, as per usual. "He _is_ your friend, Sherlock. He shouldn't _have_ to ask. If you care about him, you should do it automatically."

Said friend had left the room now, phone pressed to his ear. If Greg was right, Sarah had called to yell at him for missing work again. It was a wonder that John even kept that job, what with him running around with sociopaths in his spare time (and, sometimes, in his not spare time).

Sherlock snorted. "Aren't you just the scolding father figure today, Lestrade?" He swished his way around the table to the other side, supposedly to take a second-look at the samples in the microscope, although Greg suspected he was just trying to avoid any sort of physical contact with him. Sherlock looked up from the microscope with a bland expression. "I'll have you know that I do care about him, by the way. You have no right to imply that I do not."

"I wasn't implying anything, Sherlock." Gregory was fighting a smile at the turn in conversation, though. It wasn't every day that Sherlock engaged in conversation with anyone but John, especially about – what? Feelings? Greg snorted. "I just think you should consider not being so bossy."

Oddly, Sherlock grinned at him. Greg nearly dropped the files in his arms in shock at the expression – it was so bizarrely genuine and amused that it was actually frightening, considering it was settled on the face of a self-declared sociopath. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Sherlock smile for real, and it startled him every time.

"I _have_ considered it before, Gregory. I've even attempted it." Sherlock looked like he might actually be fighting a blush for a moment, nose wrinkling. "He asked if I was 'sick or something,' and when I told him what I was doing he laughed at me. I suspect he likes being bossed around – comes with the military training, learning to take orders without question. Do you think any of his commanders ever said please? No. That, and polite niceties are tiring."

It was strange just how rational that sounded. Greg shook his head, shifting the files in his arms. "Well, you're not his commander. You're his friend."

"Correct." Sherlock's smile faded for a moment, eyes jumping to some distant thing, before quickly returning to grinning (still freakish, Greg thought) down at the evidence. "You are implying that the 'bossiness' should be a two way street, correct?"

"Um, well, not exactly—"

"John is well aware of the power he has over me, Gregory. As am I." Sherlock's smile was gone with such abruptness that Greg felt his blood go cold for a moment. He wasn't scared of Sherlock, not a bit, but sometimes he could understand what people meant when they said he could be a serial killer. What was startling for Greg, however (he'd known the man for 5 years, the serial-killer-look didn't surprise him anymore) were the words, and he turned them over in his mind with a deep frown.

_Power? John? Over Sherlock?_ Greg dared a doubtful glance through the small window in the door at John. As if reading his mind Sherlock sighed. Loudly.

"He is my best friend, Lestrade. I'd do anything for him. Really, I thought it was obvious." Sherlock took the samples out from the microscope and promptly tossed them into the waste bin, expression twisted into some odd cross of annoyed and embarrassed. Greg, never the type to pass up an opportunity, grinned.

"Anything? Really? Sounds a bit kinky to me." Greg waggled his eyebrows.

Sherlock just looked at him, expression unmoving. "If he were the type," he said. Greg blanched.

"Oh. Uh. Okay then." Greg shuffled the files in his arms, awkwardness smacking him full across the face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John isn't gay, Gregory."

"Okay." _Are you?_ Greg pushed the thought away, only to have it be replaced by, _John might not be gay, but you're alien enough to be considered neither gender as far as I'm concerned._ Greg clenched his jaw. Sherlock's sigh was thick with drama and irritation.

"The point is this, Gregory: John is well aware that, if he truly wanted something, I would give it to him. But, he asks for nothing. John is also aware that I care for him. But he makes no effort to make me be polite to him. Therefore, I am going to continue to do my Work in the way I always do. That…. That is the point. Deduce whatever you wish, _Inspector._"

Bristling with irritation (perhaps more with himself than with Gregory) Sherlock pushed the evidence into a neat stack before cramming it into a bag. Greg just stared at him until John came through the door, an apologetic look on his face.

"Oh, Sarah didn't fire you? Incredible how much attachment she formed to you regardless of your lacking feelings towards her. Is she aware how very little attraction you have towards her now a day?" Sherlock plucked the phone from John's hands. The doctor in question just rolled his eyes.

"Yes, well. I sent that text for you; Mrs. Hudson says the pasta looks delicious." Greg and John shuddered in unison; Sherlock just arched his eyebrows. "Are we done here?"

"Nearly," Sherlock said. Greg watched John watch Sherlock bend over to get his bag, and blushed. _Not gay my ass,_ he thought. _Or, well, your ass, considering John's line of vision._ The thoughts were stomped out as soon as Sherlock stood upright. "Carry this, would you?"

"Can't you do it yourself?" John said as he took the bag, strapping it over his shoulder. Sherlock ignored him in favor of attacking the buttons on his phone; how he had achieved that level of dexterity with a touch screen was beyond Gregory, but he suspected it had something to do with those bony fingers of his.

"Ah, good. _Somebody _pulled through." Sherlock pocketed his phone and swept past the doctor, not even bothering to look over his shoulder on the way out the door. "The chase is on, John! Keep up!"

John glanced up at Greg with an apologetic smile; it looked only skin deep to Greg, though – it was clear he was more than happy to leave this abruptly to go gallivanting through the streets of London. "See you, Gregory."

"Yeah." Greg fought a smile. "See you."

It took Gregory a good hour to realize that Sherlock had just walked out with all the evidence.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Review?<strong>_

**_p.s. FF(dot)net is allowing me to personally reply again, so expect me to be getting back to you asap; sorry if I miss anybody! I'm a busy lady. And by busy, I mean watching Supernatural. Yeahh. xx -DC_**


	37. Having Fits

**A/N: I was feeling down and so I shoved as much fluff as possible into this in attempt to make myself feel better. It didn't work, but I think I kinda like the fic anyway. Enjoy?**

**Word Count: 1,350+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): shameless fluff, grown men giggling, filed under Things I Write On My iPhone in Gas Station Parking Lots, mentions of death, and manholes.**

* * *

><p><strong>Having Fits<strong>

* * *

><p>They stumbled into the hotel room laughing like loons. It wasn't an especially humorous situation, in retrospect - they'd nearly died in that shoot off and the serial killer they cornered died before they could catch him and make him reveal the location of the bodies; he'd tripped and fallen right down an open manhole - and yet there they were, breathless and over-spilling with mirth.<p>

Sherlock was the first to collapse onto the bed, mirthful tears leaking down his cheeks; the mattress was uncomfortable as expected (the hotel room was shanty) but right then it didn't matter. John barreled in beside him, red faced with laughter; they'd only gotten one bed, a rather small one no less (the staff made assumptions like everybody) but right then it felt fine. More than fine, in fact.

It was less the situation and adrenalin and more the sound of each other's laughter than urged them on now, deep baritone mingling with breathy howls. John had gotten to the point where he truly struggled to breathe; Sherlock's ribs ached through the buzz of euphoria.

John, surprisingly enough, was the first to be freed from the giggle fit, of only for the sake of his lungs. He twisted his head around to look at Sherlock with a baffled sort of grin; the detective struggled to calm himself, hands pressed against his mouth in vain effort to physically push the laughter back into himself. The sight was, in essence, the toppling of the first domino, a thought kept to oneself:

_How cute._

The second domino: a thought voiced aloud, quite by accident.

"I love you."

Sherlock's laughter stopped abruptly, hands still clasped over his mouth; his eyes took on a likeness to saucer plates. John's jaw went slack – _Did I just say that?_ – but before he could say anything else Sherlock's giggle fit returned with a vengeance.

John's face reddened, hardly from oxygen deprivation now. "What!"

"John, you... Your face... Can't breathe." Sherlock's head arched back and he shook with now-silent laughter, air evading him entirely. John gaped at him, boggled.

"Hey! I just made a serious confession!" John insisted. "This isn't funny!"

Sherlock could not answer, far too busy pressing his hands to his mouth and attempting to fight down the fits of laughter ripping out of him. Had he not been too busy being irritated John would have been overcome with adoration at the sight.

Instead he reached over and swatted Sherlock on the leg. "You're a bastard."

Said bastard controlled himself just long enough to wheeze, "Good God, John, you call me dramatic."

"Dramatic?" John sat up half way to glare at him. For whatever reason this sent Sherlock into hysterics again, literally kicking his legs into the air. "Oh, that is it," said John. "I'll show you dramatic."

John flipped over and nearly on top of Sherlock, pinning the still howling man with one arm and using the opposite to pry Sherlock's hands away from his mouth. Sherlock was still crying with laughter when John pressed his mouth against his and he continued to do so afterwards. He was, in fact, still giggling when he arched his body into the kiss and returned it.

It was a strange feeling, having someone laugh against your mouth, John thought, but not an entirely unpleasant one. Sherlock's happy breath against his lips was warm and his lips were soft and grinning against his, abet quite pushy. If John fooled himself into thinking he'd only kissed Sherlock to prove some sort of point before, all such notions were soon turned to moot when Sherlock opened John's mouth with his and shoved his tongue inside. Sherlock kissed like it was a both a battle dance and a comedy show.

Somewhere between Sherlock giggling into his mouth and shoving his hands into Sherlock's trousers, John started laughing, too. Quite dazzled, John broke the kiss but not the contact, nose pressed into Sherlock's grinning cheek. "Why is this ridiculous?"

"Because, John," Sherlock said and chuckled a bit more. "We're ridiculous people."

"True. Our ridiculousness combined may end the world."

"I never was that fond of the world."

John tilted his gaze to meet Sherlock's, grinning. He was pleased to see his own feelings reflected there, even if John wasn't certain just what those feelings were. Good ones, certainly, if the growing warmth in his chest was anything to go by. For a while they just laid there and looked at each other, the last of the giggles escaping here and there. Eventually, slowly, Sherlock's eyebrows arched. "Your hands remain on my arse, if you care to recall."

_I do,_ John thought_. I care to recall your glorious arse very, very much._ But he didn't say that because it occurred to him just what this was. It was him on top of his crazy best friend in a shabby hotel room on a crappy mattress they'll have to share tonight doing things they won't be able to take back. Thinking of it rationally made things, well, awkward, and John quickly retracted his hands and rolled off of Sherlock.

Sherlock smirked. "What?"

"Uh," John said. He always had been a conversation savant.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, not to be outdone. He cleared his throat, gaze trained carefully on the ceiling. "Well. That was... spontaneous. Should I deduce what your true intentions here are, or were you wanting to tell me.

John blushed profusely. Inwardly he made a mad scramble for some sort of rational reply, or at least an evasive one. His mouth had other ideas, however, and he said, "I told you. I love you."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Yes, you did." He paused – there were very few awkward silences when you were a Holmes, but they did exist. Eventually, he said, "I knew before that, I think. I had simply... assumed ... before very recently that you meant it platonically." A pause; John was blushing so much that he seriously wondered if the rest of his body was suffering blood loss. Sherlock fought a smile. "I am a glad I was wrong."

John's startled. "Wow. _You,_ glad to be wrong? That's new." John was grinning like a maniac now; if he knew anything about Sherlock, it was that he valued his genius and prided himself on being correct in nearly everything, namely the reading of others. _Glad to be wrong?_ Sherlock might as well have proposed with all that said to him.

Sherlock flung an arm to press haphazardly over John's face. "Tell no one," he said, only half-joking. John's grin did not cease and, in a great flood of spontaneity, grabbed the arm against his face and pulled Sherlock against him.

"This ok?" John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him close, grinning against his hairline. Sherlock voiced no protest. John chuckled faintly. "You know what?"

Sherlock hummed wordlessly; his chest still pulsed with a dull, dubiously comfortable ache.

John kissed Sherlock between the eyes, a rumble of delight rising in his chest. "I really still can't believe he fell through that manhole."

Sherlock's face split into a crooked smile. "I was rather dwelling on the 'John Hamish Watson's hands in my trousers' part of the afternoon, but whatever gets you off..."

"Well shit, it nearly slipped my mind," John teased. Damn it, he was still grinning; it was uncontrollable. He was going to smile until the world ended. Or at least until his cheeks fell off. John fought another sprig of laughter. "We're in trouble now, aren't we?"

"Almost undoubtedly." Sherlock slid his arms around John's neck and slid his lips across John's, more a passing taste than a kiss. John shivered. "It would be far too boring without the trouble, John. You know how I hate boring."

"Let's not let that ever happen, then," John said, and kissed Sherlock senseless. Sherlock didn't bother to inform him that he doesn't have to try, that John is the opposite of boring even when he's being mundane. They have time to make up for, after all - best not waste a second of it.

* * *

><p><em><strong>My e-mail is refusing to give me my alerts again, so I'll have to check back here manually for a few days to read the flood of reviews I'm sure you guys plan on leaving me.<strong>_


	38. Stamford Wives

**A/N: My friend and I were talking about how Mike is basically the ultimate matchmaker and somehow this came out? Ahem. Enjoy?**

**Word Count: 1,200+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): Mike Stamford centric. Hints at something nearly psychic but not actually, perhaps a bit OOC on his part if you can call it that. Ridiculous amounts of romanticizing of relationships, gay marriage, and Sherlock's pyro phase. Also, alludes to thoughts of suicide. Possibly a bit AU with how things are timed in their schooling/Mike and Sherlock's meeting, but I don't know. ALSO: brief mentions of rape, domestic abuse, ect.**

* * *

><p><strong>Stamford Wives<strong>

* * *

><p>The thing about Mike Stamford was that he knew people. He wasn't especially smart or charismatic; he bumbled through life with an unassuming smile and an entirely unthreatening demeanor, the kind of man you'd trust with our children over the weekend or your car with the keys in the ignition and wallet in the glove compartment. Rightfully so – the greatest wrong Mike had ever committed was under aged drinking at University, and even that was infrequent and, then, dwindled down into nothing as it tended to make him queasy.<p>

Mike Stamford could also see straight into your soul without even trying.

It wasn't a skill he was even remotely aware of possessing, but possess it he did. There was not a poker face that Mike could not see past – he knew a stranger more than they knew themselves nine times out of ten. Had he been the type, he could have been quite the manipulative man. He wasn't. But the hyper-focused sympathy gave him an advantage, whether he knew it or not. It meant that masks were self portraits, that lies were transparent, that trust was both easy and hard – that the victims (and, sometimes, the culprits) of domestic abuse or rape could not go unnoticed in his practice, that discrimination was an absolute impossibility, that no matter how deep in the closet you happened to be the doors were made of glass, and that reaching out to his students was made much simpler as they instinctively liked him for his inherent understanding. It meant that, whether anyone (including Mike Stamford) was aware of it or not, everyone around him was exposed.

For Sherlock Holmes, it meant that when he said, "Who would want me for a flat mate?" Mike knew he meant, "I'm lonely and no one likes me much."

Now, on a surface level, Mike had no reason to like Sherlock Holmes; it wasn't as if the fondness was requited. The first time they met Mike said, "Hello," and Sherlock replied, "You are approaching me out of severely misguided sympathy. Your sympathy is not often misguided, but tonight I assure you it is – I sit alone only because everyone here has an average-level IQ and are therefore not worth my time; does that quell your curiosity? No. _You_ are here because although you'd much rather be out with your friends watching them get drunk and making friendly conversation with girls you pity more than you like, you really must study. You study a lot – you have to, if you plan on getting that medical degree, especially since you aren't technically intelligent enough to be the surgeon you want to be. No – _they _want you to be; you want to help people but high stress level situations intimidate you, you wanted to be a doctor but not anything as intense as trauma center, yet nothing so boring as a general practitioner. Perhaps you'd make a good teacher - nevermind that. The stress is already getting to you – not only from the creeping in of your chosen career path but because your parents expect quite a lot of you. Oh – parent. My mistake; pity about your mother, she understood you quite a bit better than your father ever did, you don't get on as well as you'd like although you still wear his old wedding ring around your neck. Why doesn't he wear it – moved on already? Yes, I see, and you've been eating your feelings. The pastry shop near your dormitory is open 24-hours, the powdered donuts are your frequent purchase. You always manage to burn off the calories but I assure you that won't last long. Now, I could continue but you are rather dull; please scurry off unless you plan on gaping at me a while longer. I'm experimenting." Mike did scurry off, heavy with the knowledge that Sherlock had absolutely no idea just how offensive he'd been and shell-shocked by the bitterness buried behind those ghoulish eyes of his.

The second time they met it was roughly fifteen minutes later when the books on Sherlock's desk burst into flames and Mike happened to be closest to the fire extinguisher.

Yes, Mike had plenty of reason not to like the detective, but he did. Maybe it was sympathy – he saw straight through that mask of indifference Sherlock coated himself with so thickly, saw the broken-up, lonely man struggling to sustain his own overpowering mind. More, though, Stamford saw the potential, the massive flurry of aimless energy in need of a filter. It threatened to tear out of the man at any moment, beaten down only by the worst of methods. Mike thought perhaps he shouldn't be, but he was intrigued by the man to the point of coming to visit him from time to time during University and, later, after losing contact while Mike was in med school and Sherlock was fighting a battle with cocaine, Mike visited the detective's blog and exchanged small talk (or, rather, gave small talk and received mostly nonsense and interrogation in return) when he saw Sherlock at Bart's. Mike didn't fool himself – he knew they weren't friends and that Sherlock tolerated him only reluctantly.

Still, Mike found himself fretting over him, caring as he cared for everyone, feeling empathy. Mike had never been alone a day in his life, not truly alone, and he couldn't fathom the idea that Sherlock wanted to be. Mostly because Mike knew Sherlock _didn't_ want to be, not at all, even if Sherlock had convinced everyone – convinced _himself_ – otherwise.

Meeting John Watson that day was the mother of all coincidences, to say the least. Mike was glad to see John for the obvious reasons – they'd been friendly in med school and seeing John come back from Afghanistan, even as damaged as he was, was a blessing if there ever was one. And, anyway, Mike understood John; he was a soldier through and through, even before he enlisted, taking on the world with cool determination and a strong heart. He fell into the soldier life graciously and was torn out of it just the opposite, baring more wounds than the literal. Going back to civilian life? Well, Mike could see it, even if John's therapist didn't get it – there was no going back for John. He'd gotten a taste of what he wanted – _needed _– out of life and without it, Mike could see straight away that the hole it left would only get wider. Eventually, and Stamford knew this instinctively, it would envelop him completely; premonitions of dark things, final things, reflected in Watson's eyes, and it was all Mike could do not to look horrified.

It meant that when John said, "Who would want me as a flat mate?" Mike Stamford knew he meant, "I need to meet Sherlock Holmes." Or, at least, he should have meant that; he might as well have, as clearly as Mike knew it just then. The thought of it swelled and burst in Stamford's chest and he laughed; the image, for whatever reason, was euphoric.

Yes, it was a long shot, maybe, but then all good things were, and despite his demeanor Mike did not often doubt his hunches. He had no reason to now: Watson and Holmes fit like perfect puzzle pieces, sliding into one another's lives like they'd been there all along. Sherlock let John into his life, made him whole again and in return, John gave Sherlock enough love to make up for all the years Sherlock went without it. Perhaps claiming it as perfect would be arrogant, rude even, but if there were ever something so rightfully claimed it would be this; there are not many matches for such men, after all.

Mike Stamford never receives a thank you for bringing them together, but that's OK. The wedding invitation was close enough.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews would be glorious.<strong>


	39. Looking Spiffy, Among Other Talents

**A/N: Bit of a quick upload today. Running on 8 hours of sleep over the course of three and a half days right now because Supernatural and also school work. (Admittedly, mostly Supernatural. I'm on season 5 right now and I'm starting to ship Destiel real hard, guys. It's almost frightening.) Anyways, enjoy this chapter, hopefully? All of you kind reviewers keep telling me not to feel so nervous about every chapter so maybe I shouldn't... anyhoo...**

**Word Count: 770-ish**

**Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, Sherlock/the scarf**

**Warning(s): Shameless fluff, unnatural attachment to garments, brief mention of sexting and fantasies including (very mild) exhibitionism, politicians, and John being a cuddly but nagging wife when he's not busy kicking ass and taking names out on the streets of London. You know. Fighting crime.**

* * *

><p><strong>Looking Spiffy, Among Other Talents<strong>

* * *

><p>"You aren't actually going to wear that, are you?"<p>

Sherlock arched his eyebrow; he was positioned in front of the mirror looking himself over and, in his focused state, hadn't noticed John coming in the doorway. As much as Sherlock prided himself on his observation skills, John prided himself on an uncanny ability to sneak up on him, taking advantage of his light-footedness adapted from time in Afghanistan.

"Of course I am, John." Sherlock twisted around and craned his neck in an attempt to view his backside in the reflection. "Why would I not?"

John snorted. "You're going to look ridiculous, that's why," he said and rolled his eyes. "Although I guess you might get by on pure force of arrogance. You know you've been ogling yourself in that mirror for almost ten minutes now?"

"I'm checking for clues, John; do you honestly think I'm that vain? Mycroft's associates will be looking for any little smidgen of detail to take advantage of in my appearance and I cannot afford to be the underdog in any of the interactions there. Politicians are tricky men, John."

"Mm-hmm, yes, I'm sure they're all just dying to pick on you, 'Lock."

"You haven't come to one of the dinners before, John. They are Hell on Earth, except that unfortunately politicians exist and Hell does not." Sherlock peeked over his shoulder. "Hand me my scarf?"

"Your _scarf?_ Sherlock—"

"John." Sherlock cut him off, eyebrows arched to implausible heights. "You dress like you hug kittens for a living. I hardly think you're in any position to be handing out fashion advice."

John looked down at himself and clenched his fists, but whatever retort had flown onto his lips quickly died there. He was wearing an orange cardigan, the one that his grandmother had given him for Easter one day and had been worn to the point that, while it fit his body perfectly, it was faded and patched in all sorts of places, over a pale cream jumper that was so ill fitting it was actually adorable. And also the slippers – he just had to have put on the slippers. (It wasn't his fault the flat got cold, okay?)

"Yes, well." John cleared his throat. "This is not _fashion_ advice. It's the middle of summer – you'll be roasting out there in that coat."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. I always wear this." Sherlock swept past him, scanning the flat in one swoop. "Where is my scarf, John?"

John quirked an eyebrow. "It's in the wash. Someone had to wash it eventually." Sherlock gave him a look that suggested that, no, he would in fact have been perfectly happy wearing that scarf around indefinitely until the end of time, sanitary or not. "Don't be a baby," John said. "Don't you have anything, I don't know. Short sleeved?"

"Of course I do. I don't go _naked_ under the coat, John." Sherlock scowled as he stated the obvious; John went red at the mere suggestion. "Your pupils are dilated. Please do not entertain this fantasy. Mycroft will know, somehow."

"Ah, yes. Right. Sorry." John was not, in fact, sorry, and he fully intended on entertaining that fantasy as soon as possible. But now was (unfortunately) not the time. No. Now was the time for nagging; John put his hands on his hips and sighed. "Sherlock, you cannot wear that coat. I walked outside yesterday and I got hot. Me. I was in Afghanistan, Sherlock – I know what hot weather is, and this is it."

Sherlock set his jaw and peered down at John. Somehow the height difference failed to make John seem overpowered in the slightest, however, and he ended up pouting. "I don't see why it matters what I wear," he mumbled. The corners of John's lips twitched upwards but he fought it back.

"What if you got heat stroke, Sherlock?"

Sherlock paused as if seriously considering, then smirked. "I'd get out of that dreadful dinner."

"You're impossible."

"Possible. Just unlikely." John's irritation melted off his face when Sherlock swooped in to kiss him between the eyes, grinning hard enough for his cheeks to hurt. "I'll be home soon," said Sherlock. "Oh, and don't eat the peanut butter."

John paled a bit, but his grin remained. "Noted."

Sherlock's eyes crinkled for a moment, fighting back an equally broad grin; he couldn't afford to look even a smidgen happy tonight, not in the presence of Mycroft's assortment of powerful old men. John, ever the understanding boyfriend, saw Sherlock off (still in that coat, damn him) and vowed to send him ridiculously romantic (or, if ineffective, erotic) text messages all night.

* * *

><p><em><strong>If only hugging kittens was an actual profession...<strong>_

_**Er, I mean. Review?**_


	40. Coping and How to Avoid It

**A/N: Post Riechenbach angst. It had to come back eventually. This whole idea is a bit overworked by now, I'm sure, but I wanted to try my hand at it. So there ya go. Also, if you were wondering, I'm to Season 5 of Supernatural (about half way through) and I ship Destiel super hard. (Although perhaps not as hard as the Dean and Sam bromance; I'm not the type for Wincest though.) Expect a few SPN fics from me sometime soon, if anyone is interested. Anyways, enjoy!**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): Post-TRF, schizophrenic-ish themes, imaginary/hallucination!Sherlock, cray-cray!John, unhealthy "coping methods," some dark themes, blood, jumpy tense, and angst.**

* * *

><p><strong>Coping and How to Avoid It<strong>

* * *

><p>Every morning John Watson makes two cups of coffee. One with cream, no sugar. One black, two sugars. He leaves both cups on the counter to cool for a while after they're done; Sherlock would drink it immediately regardless of the scalding it would give his throat. Or, he would, if Sherlock weren't<p>

_No. Stop. Retreat, retract, push, delete. _John has picked up a few things from his flat mate over the years. Purposeful ignorance, for one.

"Good morning. Did you ever get to bed last night?" John knew Sherlock hadn't, of course, but he asked anyway. As usual Sherlock made no effort to reply and John made no effort to make him do so, just putting Sherlock's mug beside the microscope and going to his laptop. "Any cases today?"

"No," said Sherlock. He looked up from his microscope to frown. The expression looked off, just slightly Not Sherlock. John felt a twist in his gut. Brains are fuzzy. Even the clearest things, the most real things, the most important things, blur; John thought he'd forget his own face before he'd forget Sherlock, but still, it appeared that he would. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Crime has been slow, so slow. No murder sprees, no grand schemes, not even an interesting robbery. It's dreadful."

"Maybe they're scared of you." John chuckled at the thought. No. Crime masters weren't smart enough to be scared of Sherlock, were they? Of course – _no deletedeletedelete._ "We could go to Angelo's," John offered.

Sherlock stopped responding. John set his jaw. The cursor on the blank computer document blinks up at him, bewildered. He clutched the coffee cup with white knuckles. Swallowed hard. He knew if he looked up it would be too much. Far too much.

The coffee by the microscope goes cold.

.

Every afternoon John and Sherlock have a nice conversation over dinner. It wasn't this way before, but now, it is, and it's nice. They talk about everything and anything. Or, mostly, John will just listen to Sherlock rambling about whatever complicated experiment or dazzling deduction he's conjured up. John is happy to listen. Sherlock's voice is melodic, perfect, forever etched into John's soul, and John could listen for hours even though sometimes John can't understand the words he's saying.

John never makes Sherlock a plate. Sherlock would only waste it and, if he's hungry, he'll mooch off John's plate. This isn't anything different than before. Except that it is because Sherlock never does. He won't mooch. He's never hungry. There's a reason for that; it's because he's –

_No no shut up no please. _Some days they have a conversation just like this:

"I miss you, Sherlock."

"That is irrational. I'm right here with you."

"I know. But it isn't the same."

"Because I'm dead."

"Because you're dead."

"Ah. Please don't' cry. It's ridiculous."

"Bugger off."

"Why must you miss me so badly? I never did anything to deserve it. I was a bastard in the end. You have every reason to hate me."

"No. I love you."

"Loved, you mean."

"No. Love. Some things just don't go into the past tense, not ever."

"Oh."

"I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock never replied to that. That was OK, though. Sherlock wouldn't have replied if he were real, either. He wouldn't ever hear; couldn't ever hear. Still, John said it, offered his soul to the void that was Sherlock's legacy. Meaningless, empty, but there none the less.

.

Every night John stands outside Sherlock's bedroom door. He swore he could hear Sherlock's quiet snoring through the walls, even when he was downstairs with the tele blaring. Standing outside, John hesitated. He always did. Not without good reason – there are two options for nights like this.

On some nights John will open the door and Sherlock will be sprawled out on the bed. Sometimes, asleep. Sometimes, deep in thought. Always his eyes will flick open and he'll say, "Can't sleep?" and John will just nod and crawl in beside him. Sherlock would smirk and let John lay down beside him, perhaps secretly pleased to have someone to talk at. Not touching – never touching – but close enough that John can feel Sherlock's soft ramblings on the back of his neck. Sherlock will keep talking even after his deep baritone lulls John to sleep. This had not been a thing before. How could it have been? It had happened only once before Sherlock—

_No no no no. Stop that._ Nightmares haunt him more than ever, but those nights help some.

More nights, John will open the door and regret it. His own hallucinations betray him; Sherlock will be there. He's always there. But then, lifeless, laying sprawled in scarlet like a broken doll. During the first year, John's heart would stop when he saw this. Be prompted to have a hideous breakdown, fly out of the room like all hell might be after him. He just couldn't deal with it then. The bloodstained skin. The curls slicked with red. The blown, lifeless gray eyes. But it's been almost three years now and John would just feel numb. He'd leave quietly, eyes shut, and carefully scrape the image out of his mind. Submitting to another sleepless night.

That night, though, John is even more exhausted than usual and he decided having-either or was useless. He's hardly sane at this point anyway; you can't go down from the bottom. So he strolled over. Brushed his fingers over Sherlock's face – cold, lifeless, imaginary _nostop_ – and gently pushing his eyes closed. Sherlock looked less dead without those empty eyes. Yes, not dead. Just sleeping. Peaceful. Yes. John curled into the bed and pretended he could feel Sherlock's warm breath on his neck.

Sometimes he can still smell the blood.

.

Every Sunday John would go down to the cemetery. Sometimes he brings flowers. Sometimes he brings case files and newspapers. Once, he brought the skull – "An old friend is here to see you, 'Lock." – but he got too much attention for that.

Almost always, Sherlock comes along. He would sit beside the gravestone and fondle the gifts John leaves for the grave, silent unless spoken to. The quietness might be seen as respectful except t hat it wasn't. Sherlock grinned from ear to ear every visit.

"Why the grin?"

"It's funny," Sherlock would say. "Visiting my own grave? Well, don't look at me that way, John. You giggle at crime scenes. I'm only thinking of Huckleberry Finn."

John never said Rest in Peace in relation to Sherlock. He'd never been at peace in life – always buzzing, moving, thinking, fighting everything (even himself, _especially himself_) down to the very last breath. John had no reason to believe that would change just because Sherlock wasn't breathing anymore. That he couldn't be "up there," still causing trouble. Heaven's very own consulting angel. John isn't religious in the slightest, but it's a nice thought. It helps him cope with—

_No. Stopstopstop oh, god, please no get away get out of my head. Hesalivehesalivehesalive don't leave me— _

_Delete. _

He's not really coping at all.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Some days I think I'm hallucinating that my review count is what it is. Wowwowwow... send me more?<strong>_


	41. The Intimacy of Instruments

**A/N: Okay, um, wow. I have 200 reviews! 200! (And apparently 40 chapters, which is less an accomplishment and more of a proclamation of how I have too much time I have on my hands...) I don't know what to say to properly express my joy but, umm, thank you! Thank you so much, everyone! And an extra special thank you to I'llbeyourPatronus, my 200th reviewer and also the person who pointed out that I did, in fact, have 200 reviews. I don't know what I'm doing to deserve so much love from you guys, but I hope I keep doing it! Thank you, again, and enjoy this short little thing!**

**Word Count: 530**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, Sherlock/violin**

**Warning(s): Near-worshiping love, John discrediting himself, Sherlock being severely unromantic in parts, slightly bizarre admiration of inanimate objects, talk of soul mates, vagueness. No real plot, as usual, just a vague drabble.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Intimacy of Instruments<strong>

* * *

><p>John is half asleep when he hears the violin start to play. He stirs, roused by the sound; a drowsy smile graces his lips. It's funny – although John has trained himself to sleep straight through the off-tune, agonized shrieks the violin all too often releases at the hands of his flat mate, John always crawls out of his dreams for the soft, lovely music that sometimes filters through the flat. Perhaps it's because he wants to hear them. To see them.<p>

Watching Sherlock and the violin dance makes John wish he were a better writer. To capture the feeling – the true, human sway of the sight, to portray the mingling heart wrenching memory. That would be art. Blog worthy, at least. But John knows no words of his could properly capture Sherlock Holmes in all his depth and he wouldn't be doing the experience any favors attempting to do so. So he doesn't – he just sits and absorbs.

He likes to think that Sherlock is his soul mate. Perfect partners, meant to find one another no matter the circumstances. It's moments like this where he doubts it the most. How can Sherlock be _his_ soul mate? His _equal?_ Seeing him like this Sherlock seems so much more than him. He is a deity, an angel, perhaps a demon – something far more potent than anything Earth-bound. John feels graced to be even in his presence on these nights, not to mention to share love with him. What are the chances, he wonders. What did he do to deserve this? If anything, the violin is Sherlock's soul mate. As soon as it is in his arms, caressed gently to his shoulder and drawn over with the bow, it is clear. It pries Sherlock open and exposes his soul. Unadulterated, breath-taking, near torturous, and borne to all who care to look, to listen. And John does. He always does. Always will.

Eventually Sherlock puts the violin away. Sometimes it relaxes him and sometimes it excites him; the music sorts the whirlwind of thoughts that way, secures his sanity in some profound way. Anyway he smiles when he sees John is watching, and John smiles back. "Beautiful," he says. "I don't recognize it."

"That's because I only just composed it. Thank you." Sherlock slides his fingers over the bow almost lovingly before placing it beside the violin. Then, looking serious: "I'll title it _Watson _if it will please you enough to let me crawl into bed with you this late."

"And they say romance is dead." John chuckles and pulls Sherlock in for a kiss, chest flooding with eager warmth. "I love you," he whispers against his lips. He feels himself shiver, the last traces of the song rolling off of him. Sometimes he still can't believe he's there. That this isn't all in his head. Something so extraordinary in his arms, himself being so ordinary. Just a man, married to a living, breathing work of art. John buries his face into Sherlock's neck and breathes him in, assuring himself. Real. All real.

Sherlock pulls John closer. Traces his lips against John's forehead. Whispers, "I'm a lucky man, aren't I?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Well, I've received 200 reviews and now I'm addicted. <strong>_


	42. Of Love and Bad Poetry

**A/N: I actually think about the overuse of "meaningful" words a lot. So that's basically why I wrote this. Yep. Anyhoo enjoy!**

**Word Count: 890+**

**Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, mentions of Sherlock/anonymous, Sherlock/Mycroft brotherly fluffiness, John/ladies, and hardcore Sherlock/Lestrade bromance, the latter of which is beginning to be a major problem.**

**Warning(s): Crap family lives, over analysis of novelties, cheesy poetry clichés via John Watson, unforgivable amount of fluff, and consulting goofballs in love. Mentions of cocaine problems, alcoholism, and meaningless sex. Also, mentions of Sherlock being infatuated with a woman, which I guess some people find unbelievable for whatever reason.**

* * *

><p><strong>Of Love and Bad Poetry<strong>

* * *

><p>I love you. Three words, eight letters, a million different interpretations. There was meant to be something profound attached to those words, a certain sacred, glorious hue reserved for heart-ache soul mates and the tender truth between one's true family. I love you. The words were meant to have so much meaning to them. But, of course, they usually didn't.<p>

John Watson had said "I love you" many times, countless times. He said it to his mother, because it was the only thing left to say to the dull husk of the woman who'd birthed him. He said it to his father or, rather, his gravestone, who he might've loved had he ever really known him. He said it to his sister, not because he really did love her but because she was drunk and broken and it was what she needed to hear. He said it to random aunts and uncles that he met twice a year, at best. He said it in the throes of passion with faceless women, when what he'd meant was "I love sex." He said it to pretty, nice girls who he almost believed himself with, more or less because they'd said it first and there were obligations if you wanted to keep dating a girl. He said it countless times to countless people to the point where the words are strung so thin off his lips the meaning is lost. Stunted. Typical. Hollow.

So what to say, then, to the man he truly loves? Sherlock Holmes despises typical and stereotypical, and he'd only scoff at meaningless. John lays there in Sherlock's arms, nose pressed into his neck, and he wishes he could take them all back. Delete every false "I love you" he ever released. Sherlock deserves them all, and more. He deserves some new, virgin avowal to express just what John feels for Sherlock. Just Sherlock and no one else, not before and not after – there will not be an after, if John can help it. But John can't do that. He can't give Sherlock anything for he's been careless with his affection and given all of the novelties away.

Sherlock looks down at John and smiles. "You're thinking quite loudly. What about, I wonder?"

John closes his eyes. Ghosts his teeth over Sherlock's neck. "Nothing I say will be enough," he says. "It's all been said before."

"Say nothing, then," Sherlock says. "I already know."

"Do you?"

Sherlock pulls John closer, hands clutching against his skin. "Yes," he says, matter-of-fact. "I've deduced it and, as you know, I _am_ quite clever."

John nuzzles his face into Sherlock's throat. Breathes him in. "I hope so," he says.

Sherlock can count on one hand the number of times he's said those words, and he meant it every one. He isn't a sentimental person and it takes quite a lot of Meaning to elicit something like that out of a Holmes boy, after all.

He meant it when he was seven and Mummy started up again – screaming, crashing, crying, breaking. Mycroft had stolen him away into the neighborhood and Sherlock, significantly thunderstruck by the escapade and the feel of his big brother's arms around him, spoke it carefully. ("I love you, Myc.") He meant it when that beautiful girl at school somehow charmed him, pulled him into some sort of infatuation. Laced with lies, hormones, and cocaine, sure, but real enough in Sherlock's young naivety and it had burst out of him ("I'm pretty sure I love you. That's okay, right?") a few nights before the girl dumped him without explanation; Sherlock had long sense deleted the girl's name, but he could not delete her completely and still stiffened a bit around girls with hazel eyes. He meant it when Lestrade tucked him into bed after being jacked up on morphine after a bad trip to the hospital, even if it had come blurting drunkenly out of him ("I love you, man.") and Lestrade had lit up like an especially embarrassed Christmas tree. A different kind of love for each circumstance, but all there, and all important. None of them, however, had been like with John. This was something different. Something better. Something worse.

Sherlock smiles when John leans up to kiss him. "I wish I were a poet or something," says John, voice tinkling with amusement. "Maybe then I could say it."

"I've read your poetry, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes, fought a grin. "Please, spare me."

John gasped in mock horror. "But what about your ebony locks? Your fathomless, ever changing eyes that cast allusions to your beautiful soul? The sweet, porcelain cascade of your cheekbones? I could go on for stanzas!"

Sherlock fought a tide of laughter fighting its way up his throat; can't encourage him. "Stop it!" he hisses. John is egged on anyway, grinning like a maniac.

"My aching scarlet heart beats only for you! I am but an ordinary speck under your divine, brilliant light!""

"John!"

"You weave through the city like a raven sweeps the elegant night!

"Ravens aren't nocturnal."

"My love for you is deep and fathomless as the Universe you fail to understand!"

Sherlock kneed him in the stomach just hard enough to make John lose his breath before he swooped in to kiss him. It was firm but not rough and Sherlock grinned against John's lips. Suffocation aside, John's heart soared.

He could work on being novel later.

* * *

><p><em><strong>I need some. Get me some.<strong>_


	43. A Rational Display of Appreciation

**A/N: More or less just an excuse to expose my two weird forth-wall busting headcanons – that there is a cult following for Sherlock who writes fan fiction that is very much like us (though nerdier, if possible, since they're writing about an actual real guy in this case…) and also that John has a thing for Sherlock/Lestrade as long as it's purely fictional because it would be super hot. (If you were wondering, the headcanon goes both ways – Lestrade ships Johnlock like there's no tomorrow in my headverse.) Anyway, uh, I guess two chapters today, more or less (though I'm not sure this even COUNTS as a chapter) because I don't think I'm going to be updating at all anytime soon because I'm going to Jamacia for vacation and there's no wifi in the area where we'll be going. SO. That's that. Enjoy…?**

**Word Count: 577**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock; mentions of mostly-fictitious other pairings; semi-bashing of Holmescest, but I'm only poking fun, I promise I'm not a hater or nothin'. I HAVE read **_**Filling In For The Skull… **_**if you've read it, you know what I'm talking about… (It's by Damagoed, if not.)**

**Warning(s): Compensatory forth-wall fic. Extensive talk of fanfictions and fangirls. Immensely cracky, random, pointless, ect. Mentions of incest and drinking one's problems away. Also, there's a really long Author's Note that's pretty irritating...**

* * *

><p><strong>A Rational Display of Appreciation<strong>

* * *

><p>"John, are you aware that there is… fan fiction of us?"<p>

The day had come.

John sighed wearily and looked up from his laptop. Sherlock was crouched over his own, face scrunched in concentration. "Yeah," said John. "I know. I told you, we're practically famous at this point. Some of our fans are, um… enthusiastic. Why?"

Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched. "What is 'slash'?"

John blanched. "Um, you know," he said. Sherlock's blank look suggested otherwise. John cleared his throat. "Like, couples. Gay ones." He sighed. "Why, did you find the Johnlock?"

"John Locke?" Sherlock frowned for a moment, then brightened. "Oh! _Johnlock._ A mix of our names, correct?" His eyes danced. "How innovative."

"Don't look so pleased over it."

Sherlock continued grinning. "A lot of this is near pornographic!"

"Again with the pleased expression…"

"Did you know that they 'ship' my brother with DI Lestrade?" Sherlock actually made the quote signs with his hands this time.

John chuckled, though the irritation still seeped through his expression. "Yeah. It's a little obnoxious."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "You wrote Spock and Kirk when you were in Uni, if I recall."

"…That's different."

"Of course it is."

It appeared that Sherlock had no intentions from moving away from the topic. John sighed, resigned to his own fate, and scooted into place beside him. The _Blog Of John Watson_ external forum sat happily on the screen, list upon list of various fan made content littering its contents. Sherlock scrolled through the summaries with a never ceasing grin. "People are _remarkable,_ John."

John peered at the content list, wary. The most-used subject on the forum besides just "fanfic" was "Johnlock." For one reason or another, he was proud, but only for a second. Mostly it was just creepy. Before he could make any sort of response Sherlock went pale (or, well, pal_er)_ and abruptly seemed to second that emotion. John quirked an eyebrow. "What?"

"John…" he said, slowly. "What is a… _Holmescest?_"

Oh. _Oh._ John had almost forgotten.

Fighting a smirk, he replied, "Well, Sherlock, it includes Mycroft… and you... doing... things. Like, you know-"

"No. No, do not continue. I'll delete it soon. Just… They know we're brothers, right?"

"It doesn't seem to matter to them."

Sherlock shuddered. A brief thought that Sherlock and Mycroft would actually be really hot crossed John's mind for a moment before being quickly sprayed out with mental holy water. _Fucking height kink._

"What's Sherstrade? Lestrade and I, I assume?" Sherlock asked, eager to change the subject.

John… blushed. Severely. "Um, yeah. Yup. At least, I think. I don't keep up on such things."

"Hmm?" Sherlock frowned and gave John an odd look. "What are you red-faced for?"

"Uh. No reason." Definitely not that he'd read half of the Sherlock archive or anything. Nope. That would just be weird. I mean, this was his closest (and, at this point, only) "bro" left to speak of and the love of his life he was talking about. Why would he read fan fiction about that? No, he definitely didn't do that. Not John Watson. John Watson was _normal._

Sherlock stared at him for a long, severely awkward moment before slowly turning back to the laptop. "What's a Sherliarty? It sounds like a fruit drink."

John sighed. "Might as well be."

"I'm going to ignore your pointed jab at my non-existent flamboyant nature and inquire-" Sherlock poked the screen with a frown. "What's a 'Johlly'?"

"Um?" John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder to peek, then huffed. "Oh, Molly and I. I'm not really sure where that one came from. You see the Sherolly yet?"

"Yes. Wholly uninteresting." Sherlock looked up at John with stern eyes. "They seem to widely believe I have an army fetish. Why do they think that?"

"Because you _do_?"

"Is it really that obvious, though?"

"Yes."

"Ah." Sherlock turned to the screen again, lips pressed together for a moment. Then, "What's a 'PWP?'"

"Ugh." John got heavily to his feet; this conversation was getting the better of him. "We can have this conversation _ after_ I get a beer."

"Tea for me, thanks. Oh! Did you know there's _fan art?_"

Ah, okay. Screw the beer. Whiskey it was.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews are beautiful. ALSO: are alerts not working again? I didn't get the composite alert for my own story earlier today, so, yeah.<strong>_

_**On a completely unrelated note, my History teacher loves talking about John Locke and I love listening about it, although he always looks at me when I snicker…**_


	44. Bridges

**A/N: I don't have an explanation for how random this is except that we had a "just write" session in Creative Writing where he'd literally (not literally) smack your wrist with a ruler if he saw that your pencil stopped writing. Thankfully he didn't actually READ what we were writing, though, because it turned into…well…this.**

**Word Count: **

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): **_**Absolutely rated M, people.**_** Contains (albeit non-detailed) sexual content included but not limited to leisurely morning hand-jobs. Allusions to the original-time-period Sherlock Holmes adventures, bizarre dreams, and references to war. Talk of atheism, questioning fate, and allusions to reincarnation (or lack thereof.) Again… sexual content… for all of the READING of sexual-content fics I do, I'm really no good at writing it, guys.**

* * *

><p><strong>Bridges<strong>

* * *

><p>John tipped his head back. The sweat rolled off his forehead in heavy beads to pool at the nape of his neck; the heat still got to him after a good year and a half of being overseas. He was hardly off his game, though, and was not distracted for long from the spidery hands tracing patterns into his neck. John could feel the man's laughter muffled against his throat. It crossed John's mind that there was definitely something gross about having someone's face buried against your sweaty skin, especially seeming to enjoy it so, but it didn't really matter. The sweltering Afghanistan sun and the condition it's left him in is a small woe compared to the ache in his chest he feels just being in this man's presence.<p>

_Sherlock Holmes._ An odd name for an odder man.

"You," Sherlock said and kissed the tender, sun burnt skin on John's shoulder. "I've been waiting for you, Doctor Watson. Have you been waiting for me?"

They've only met minutes ago, or maybe hours. It's gone by fast. So it's a question that leaves John thunderstruck, or at least, it should have. It was _strange_. Hell, everything about the man was strange. There John was, drenched and blistering in the heat of the desert even in his lightest gear and there was Sherlock, donned inexplicably in a thick coat and scarf and looking all the while completely composed. His complexion, despite having supposedly been stationed here as well, is perfectly pale and unblemished and he only sweat on him is John's. The apparent immunity to heat stroke accompanied with the tall, bony, alien features on the man should have had John running in the opposite direction at this point; especially considering John wasn't gay was he? Hell, John didn't' know _what_ Sherlock was, never mind _who._

But John wasn't fazed. In fact, he replied, "Yes. Always." He couldn't say why it felt the most honest.

Sherlock's mouth twisted into a feral grin. He gripped John's dog tags, rubbing the metal over his fingertips for a brief delicate moment before jerking John upwards. For a moment John is strangled, panicked, and very close to hitting him, but Sherlock's kisses are devastating and Sherlock had soon swallowed all of John's protests.

Perhaps John should have been worried about getting caught – his station wasn't that far off and it wouldn't be hard to find them if his presence was missed – but being frustrated and lonely in the desert isn't newsworthy anymore and John can't form coherent thoughts when Sherlock's leg is wedged between his, homosexuality or no homosexuality. Sherlock growled – _actually growled _– when John broke the kiss but was quickly rendered protest-free when John used the leverage to rip off Sherlock's scarf and set to work on his neck. It tastes like you'd expect it to – salty – and yet different, somehow unearthly and foreign. Sherlock hums appreciatively and slides his hands under John's shirt, thumbs brushing over his quickly hardening nipples; John's moan surprised John more than anybody and he buried his face into Sherlock's dress shirt. When John breathed him in he smelled like drying ink and London rain.

"I feel like the world is ending," John admitted as Sherlock yanked at the zipper on his trousers. When hand where his shirt had disappeared to was beyond John but it's absence did very little to subtract from the lovely, suppressive heat closing in on him, only emphasized by the added heat of arousal.

Sherlock's eyes danced. "Really? How often?"

John pressed his hands down on Sherlock's shoulders. "Every day," he said.

Sherlock dropped to his knees, kicking up desert dust on his fall and yanking John's trousers and pants down along with him in one fatal swoop. John looked down at Sherlock and Sherlock looked at John's exposed _everything_ and John shuddered. Sherlock nodded, a serious expression crossing his features.

"That is an understandable feeling," Sherlock said. "But don't worry. If there is anything that will last forever, it will be this." He leaned in and gave him a soft kiss. Not on the lips. John's jaw goes slack but his voice has left him. "Wake up," Sherlock whispered.

John did.

In fact he very nearly fell straight out of bed, eyes wide with shock and donning an erection so hard it was actually painful. He very nearly did hit the floor, and would have, had there not been a pair of arms tangled around his waist. John smiled and leaned into the hold, relishing the breath against his ear.

Sherlock roused, yawning. "Afghanistan nightmare?"

"Nah. Well, sort of. Not a nightmare, anyway." Certain images fly into John's mind uninvited; he cursed his vivid imagination severely. John blushed and closed his eyes, trying to dispel the erection through sheer force of will. This might have even worked, had Sherlock not reached around to play with it. "Woah, not helpful, l-love," John managed, struggling with his own voice.

"Nonsense," said Sherlock. He snaked his hand into John's pants, sliding spindly fingers over his cock. John screwed his eyes shut, breath fleeing his lungs. It only took him a few casual, sleepy strokes and a clever slide of a thumb before John released a throaty noise and was finished. Later he'd feel like a horny teenager for coming so fast, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Sherlock chuckled and retracted his hand, swiping his tongue over the sticky substance now coating his fingers in a curiously carefree sort of way. "That certainly didn't take long. Must have been quite the dream."

"It was," John said, unabashed. "Can you guess who was in it?"

Sherlock hummed. "Zeta Jones?"

"Idjit."

John wiggled around until he was facing Sherlock, a drowsy smile gracing his lips. "Hey, you ever feel like…" John paused. Sentiment was very frequently lost on Sherlock and the detective sometimes simply wasn't in the mood to be hearing any of it, something John respected but was wary of. But Sherlock gazed at him with wide, fathomless curiosity, so John said, "Do you ever feel like we've just always known each other, somehow? Like, a hundred years ago we were together somehow? Just like this?"

Sherlock's expression twisted into a thoughtful frown. "I don't know if I ever thought of that before," he said. Then, with a playful edge, "I could see it, though. You'd write about our adventures on a typewriter and I'd... I'd smoke a pipe, or something. Not too much different, I imagine."

"You're a goof," John said. But even as he pressed the topic out between their foreheads the idea, however odd, resonated in his mind. He wasn't ever the religious type – he didn't believe in God or fate or destiny on any regular scale – but this was his Faith. The idea that Sherlock was somehow ingrained into his soul, a part of him even before they met, had even been born, felt too right, to resonant in his chest to simply ignore.

Sherlock sighed. "I wish I _had_ known you. During my childhood or University, or that I'd joined the military with you instead of a drug pushing underground posse. We could have had a desert romance." Sherlock chuckled and pressed his nose to John's neck, breathing him in.

"Maybe we did," John mused. "Somewhere, in some dimension, maybe you have a set of dog tags, too. Or maybe I've got a drug problem and you're the one helping me. On some other path, you know?"

Sherlock smiled indulgently, turning the prospect over in his head, then shrugged a bit guiltily. "You know I don't believe in all of that. But I do believe in you, and in me, and in this moment right now. I believe that, considering all of the millions of random chance circumstances the universe throws at a man every day, I'm very lucky to be here with you. And for as long as I'm experiencing consciousness, I want to do it with the man that I love, and that's you." Sherlock met John's eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. "Is that enough?"

"More than enough," John said and he kissed Sherlock's neck with new fervor, tracing his teeth over Sherlock's Adam's apple. "Only you could make that sound romantic, but yes. That's just fine."

Sherlock released a happy kind of keening trill and reached up to squish his hands to John's cheeks. John gasped in giddy surprise; Sherlock rubbed their faces together like some sort of giant, amorous feline. John was content to rub right back despite the absolute silliness of the action save for the sticky hands squishing his cheeks.

"You should really wash your hands, love," John said, without much feeling.

Sherlock laughed and pressed a sloppy kiss between John's eyes. "Nah. I like it."

John quirked an eyebrow but his protests were quickly crushed between a pair of lips; Sherlock kissed him with the same odd contrast of familiar and foreign he always did and John clutched onto him like a life-raft, heat rushing to his head and drowning out all wayward thoughts of odd dreams and distant fate.

* * *

><p><em><strong>THIS WAS WEIRD… review anyway?<strong>_


	45. A Tad Complicated

**A/N: So I had an unexpected bout of both wifi and down time, so I figured I'd upload one of the shorter doo-dads I've written while I'm here. I'm sure there will be something to do with beach sex or something by the time I'm back in the US, but for now I'm submitting this miserable thing. Also: for the record, I have some serious Mary/John feels, but it's hardly in support of their marriage as I am a hardcore John/Sherlock enthusiast. Anyways... yeah. **

**Word Count: 700+**

**Pairing(s): John/Mary, John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): Post-TRF, Morstan/Watson engagement, ect**

* * *

><p>A Tad Complicated<p>

* * *

><p>Mary's eyes were extremely expressive. At any given moment John could read exactly what his fiancee was thinking just by gazing into those great caramel orbs, be it dancing joy, nervous apprehension, shy eagerness, love. There was not a moment that John felt that he was in the dark to what Mary was feeling.<p>

It figured, didn't it, that Sherlock Holmes could change even that just by existing.

Fingernails dug into John's palm; he turned to see that Mary was staring at him, eyes clouded and empty. Try as he might, he could find nothing legible in their depths. John swallowed, hard. He felt like the world might've fallen and burned around him for how lost he felt, and he knew it showed thick in his voice. "I thought he was dead," he said. "I saw him fall. I watched."

"Yes. I know." Mary dropped his hand and laced hers together, slender fingers tracing over the engagement band resting on her left.

Breathing was becoming difficult. Through the tiny window in the door he could see Sherlock - real, there, alive, fuck - dragging his feet to hail a cab. He still looked largely the same, despite his disguise and newly mangled face; John's hand throbbed from where he'd punched him. Proof, through it all, that this time he wasn't imagining it. That Sherlock was really back. For a moment, John thought he might be sick.

Mary sighed. "You want to go after him."

John looked up at her again, wide eyed and desperate. Desperate for what, he wasn't sure. "No," he said. "I don't."

"You're a terrible liar." Mary bit her lip. "Don't try and fool the woman who intended to marry you, John. I know you."

"Intended?" John's breath caught. "Past-tense?"

Mary slid the ring from her finger, looking a million miles away. "Yes, John. Past tense." John stared at her with parched lips and she turned, placed a delicate kiss on his lips, and tucked the ring into his shirt pocket.

"I love you," John choked out, chasing her retreating lips with his. Mary allowed it for a moment, soft lips melding gently against his, but pushed him away. There were tears in her eyes.

"I know, John. But not like you love that man. Not enough." Mary laughed, but it was not a happy sound. "It didn't bother me that you loved him more than me, not when he was dead. I could deal with that. But..."

"Mary-"

Mary raised her hand to silence him, trembling slightly. "I know you wouldn't leave me, not when you've asked me to marry you. You're too good for that. But you have no choice now; I'm forcing your hand. The engagement is off. I love you, John, and I will not be the woman who holds you back from being who you need to be." John was crying now, heart knotted painfully in his chest; he hated to break her heart, because he truly did love her. It hurt, terribly, but it wasn't enough to change anything. Mary was right. She was always, always right. Mary forced a smile. "It's okay, John. It's all okay."

John brushed his hands through Mary's hair, a heavy feeling invading his throat. "No it's not," he whispered.

Mary's smile faded. She caught John's hands and pulled them away from her, gentle but firm. "No," she said. "I suppose it's not. But it will have to do."

John clenched his jaw. "Will you be okay?"

"More or less." Mary looked up at the ceiling, curses unspoken on her lips. Despite herself she could not bring herself to be mad at him. She whispered, "Don't call. I'll send your stuff when I find the time, but I don't want to talk to you. I never want to see you again, understand?"

"Mary..."

Mary's voice jumped a pitch: "Do you understand?"

The Good Man in him wanted to argue. To tell her he couldn't leave her, that he loved her too much, that he couldn't forgive Sherlock, that he couldn't go back to that life after nearly a year of domestic bliss, the picture perfect life. But what he truly couldn't do was lie to her and there's a yanking in his heart that he hasn't felt in three years, and it's not towards Mary Morstan.

"I... I'm sorry," John muttered, knowing how lame he must sound.

Mary's eyes, still unreadable, remained fixed on the ceiling. "Go," she said. And, with one last glance, John went.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews would be swell.<strong>


	46. Swings Both Ways

**A/N: Dah dah dah dahhh! I'm back from Jamacia and, in honor of my return, I present to you this vaguely Jamacia-themed one-shot. I was going to aim for the typical beach sex, but then opted for this instead because hammocks are amazing. Seriously, I spent so much time on the hammock at my grandpa's beach house this Spring Break… if that hammock were a (wo)man, I would make sweet love to that hammock, because that hammock is my one true love. Not an awkward comment at all… ALSO, expect consistent daily updates and a few Supernatural bunnies to pop up outside of here as well, because I did **_**way **_**too much writing while I was on vacation than should even be healthy. And, on that lovely note, enjoy this… thing. **

**Word Count: 1,200 (EXACTLY. I don't even do this shit on purpose.)**

**Pairing(s): Sherlock/John**

**Warning(s): Excessive amounts of pre-slash fluff, stupid-one and stupid-two being flirtatious, Sherlock wearing shorts, and big floppy sun hats. Because I like big floppy sun hats. Also, Disney movie references.**

* * *

><p><strong>Swing Both Ways<strong>

* * *

><p>John didn't know just how he'd been talked into taking a trip all the way to the West Indies with Sherlock Holmes, even if it was for a case. Sherlock had been insufferable during the entire airportairplane experience (although at least John wasn't bored) and Sarah was going to murder him for missing yet another week from the surgery to go play crime busters. But now, sitting back in a wicker chair, feeling the hot Jamaican sun on his face and listening to the roll of the ocean rumbling in his ears, John was glad he had been. He hadn't relaxed this well in years.

Reaching across the table for his cola, he stole a look at Sherlock. The detective in question was flopped face-first on the hammock, long limbs spilling off the edge of the gently rocking contraption. It was a pleasant experience, seeing Sherlock that way. Since they'd ended up solving the case a full 48-hours earlier than they'd anticipated, Sherlock had shifted into the like of an oversized feline, lounging in each and every available patch of sun and (to John's shock) actually snoozing much of the day away. This, combined with the change of attire – full body coverage of London exchanged for fitting white shorts and a blue sleeveless top – made John seriously consider the existence of body-snatchers. But, all in all, it was a welcome change to see his flat mate relax.

"I can feel you staring, John," Sherlock said, not moving from his position on the hammock. John startled and turned away, taking a hasty swig of his pineapple-flavored beverage and trying his best to quell the blush rising in his cheeks. Sherlock flipped over on the hammock, a lazy smile forming on his lips.

John didn't seem to realize it but, in the wake of warm West Indie sunshine he'd made a transformation of his own, if the bright Hawaiian-print shirt, oversize sunglasses, and giant floppy sunhat were any indication (although, with the later, Sherlock was largely responsible, having purchased the sunhat with the prime intention of seeing John wear it). John had allowed himself to completely mellow out once the case had closed, spending his suddenly acquired free time indulging in a good book, floating about in the pool, or simply lazing about in the sun. All in all, completely different from the army-strong, rugged, responsible man Sherlock had grown so attached to. Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but despite his "our flight back isn't for another two days" excuse they could have easily hopped onto one of Mycroft's jets and leave whenever they fancied. It just so happened that Sherlock _didn't_ fancy. It wasn't every day one got to see John Watson in a floppy hat, after all, and he was going to take full advantage of the opportunity.

"You're free to join me on here, if you wish," Sherlock said. He extended an arm over the edge and gestured him over, fingers wiggling. John blinked and pushed the sunglasses up to his forehead, wide-eyed as if the invitation might be an illusion. Sherlock rolled his eyes and scooted over, making more-or-less enough room for his companion to fit. "Come on. It's quite comfortable."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

After a moment's hesitation inducement won out and John flopped into place beside him. The hammock creaked and rocked deeply at the sudden added weight. Sherlock grinned and pulled John in closer, shifting them both in effort to balance it. John laughed – an easy, breezy sound – and allowed his head to rest in the crook of Sherlock's neck.

"People will talk," John said, tapping Sherlock's arm, which was draped around his midsection. But when Sherlock moved to pull his arm away John stopped him, holding his arm in place with a squeeze and a smile. "It's fine," he added. "We're on vacation, after all. Hakuna Matata, right?"

Sherlock smiled back. "There will be no worries," he translated. Then, face falling into a slightly unnerved expression: "I didn't know you knew Swahili."

John gave him a startled look. "I don't," he said. "But I've seen _the Lion King._"

"The what?"

"Never mind." John tisked and muttered something about not having a childhood before closing his eyes, a fond smile playing across his lips. Lips that Sherlock watched with undisguised interest, considering their curve, their color, their consistency until John's eyes popped open again. Caught, Sherlock flipped his head around to face the sky again, frowning if only to disguise the tender expression he'd undoubtedly been wearing before. John flashed him a toothy smile, clearly amused. "You've got sunburn on your nose."

"Do I?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose experimentally, then winced; John chuckled. "So I do," Sherlock said, humming. "Oh well." He reached out to the edge of the deck and pushed off of it, setting the hammock rocking again. John closed his eyes and rolled his head back, content to toss inhibition to the wind and just enjoy the proximity to his normally so painfully distant flat mate.

"Rather convenient of your brother to have a beach house in the area our case was set, wasn't it?" said John.

Sherlock shrugged. "Mycroft has connections everywhere. Well, and Mummy. We sort of just have places everywhere. After all, the Holmes family is one of lavishness, virtue, and honor." Sherlock rolled his eyes, his tone singed with bitter sarcasm. John hummed, hoping he sounded more understanding than amused.

"Nice though, isn't it? The house?" John rolled his shoulders and arched his back in an attempt to stretch, yawning. Sherlock closed his eyes, fighting a smile. "Very nice," John continued once he'd regained his breath. "Even if there's only one bed."

"Yes. I'm thoroughly convinced Mycroft had the second bedroom obliterated and turned into a useless storage area just for this purpose," Sherlock replied, sounding grim. John just laughed and decidedly did not mention all the incidental cuddling that went down due to the arrangement. As it went in Uni: it wasn't gay if you didn't talk about it. Briefly, John wondered if the same rule applied to hammock lounging, but pushed the thought away in favor of watching Sherlock bask in the sun out of the corner of his eye.

John reached up to toy with the strap of Sherlock's shirt, blessed out to the point of thoughtlessness. "Maybe sometime we can come back here for a proper vacation," he ventured, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers. Sherlock glanced down at the contact with a blink before he gave in and smiled.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Perhaps we can. I'm sure Mycroft would be thrilled to see me doing something practically normal with my time."

John smirked. "Is lounging about with your male flat mate in a one bedroom beach house considered normal now, 'Lock? Did I miss something?"

"I said 'practically.'"

John chuckled briefly before he snuggled into a comfortable position and closed his eyes, letting himself drift off in the drowsy warmth and the distinct smell of the nape of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock, who had gotten far too much sleep this trip already for his taste, simply laid there and rocked the hammock gently, brushing his fingers through John's hair and contemplating the definition of "flirting."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Reviews fill my heart with rainbows. Or something else equally heterosexual.<em>**

**ALSO, because authors notes are solely for TMI: I got a bug bite... on my eyelid. So I can only see out of one eye. How lovely is that?**


	47. She Had the Body of a Venus, Lord

**A/N: Happy Easter everyone! This chapter is dedicated to Jesus.**

**Word Count: 1,575+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): Fake boobs. Also, John acts like a teenage boy, Sherlock is a deviant, and Mrs. Hudson is a great defender of the sanctity of marriage. **

* * *

><p><strong>She Had the Body of a Venus, Lord (Imagine My Surprise)<strong>

* * *

><p>John is used to coming home to strange things. He lives with Sherlock Holmes, after all – his whole life is strange things. It's bizarre to come home and find <em>normal<em> things at this point.

So John isn't really that surprised walk in the door of his flat and find a woman sitting in Sherlock's chair. A little freaked out, granted – as far as John knew they hadn't been expecting anybody, so she was either uninvited or Sherlock had a lady friend he didn't know about. But not surprised.

"Um, you're here to see Sherlock right? Are you a…client?" John asked cautiously, hanging his coat on the hook, mentally trying to figure if the woman could possibly be a threat to either his wellbeing or his pride. The woman arched a delicate eyebrow at him and brushed a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear. Her gaze was far more intense than it really should have been in the given situation and John, already feeling distinctly uncomfortable, shifted into a defensive posture.

"Not quite, doctor Watson," she said, finally, voice curling with mischief. "I'm here to see you, actually."

"_Me?_" John's eyebrows scrunched and he looked at her, trying to analyze her by her appearance. She sat like a proper lady, posture perfect, legs crossed. She wore a black, knee-length dress, belted at the waist and ruffling down from that point. Smooth, toned legs ended in high heels, despite her already intimidating height, and a fluffy white scarf wound around her neck despite the heat of the afternoon. She had a nice body (John winced at his own observation), very tall, lanky, perhaps a bit muscular, narrow hips, average bust-line, with pale ivory skin. John quickly moved his gaze to her face. It was slightly obstructed by the swoop of her dark but she was clearly quite attractive, if not vaguely masculine along the jaw line; her lips were painted red and eye-makeup applied lightly. Her eyes, which narrowed at him slightly as he met their gaze, looked almost out of place, a muted caramel brown.

"Checking me out, Doctor?" the woman said, coming out as a near purr.

John blushed furiously. "Excuse me?"

"No need to be shy," she said, laughter edging her tone. "I'm not modest and, anyway…" As John stared the woman stood and sauntered over; despite himself John's eyes darted to catch the sway of her hips. It was only for a moment, but she clearly caught it, because she smirked triumphantly as she finished: "I was checking you out, too."

John froze as the woman's hand slid down his chest, painted fingernails scraping over the cloth, very nearly forgetting himself at the sudden provocation – but only for a moment.

"Ah! Hey! No." John swatted her hand away, face flushed in an angry scarlet. When the woman frowned and tried it again he caught her wrist and held it away, eyes wide. "Look, lady, I don't know who put you up to this, but I'm John Watson. Sherlock Holmes's husband, if you bothered to check."

The woman took a step backwards and watched, face blank, as John raised his hand and pointed to his wedding ring. Then, slowly, the woman smirked again.

And then, to John's relief, she spoke, voice dropping into a familiar baritone: "Oh, John, you sweet, lovable fool. Did I really trick you?"

John gasped, dropping the hand. "Sherlock!"

"Please," Sherlock said, voice sliding back into its (shockingly realistic) feminine tones. It was incredible, now that John knew it, just how well Sherlock fell into female mannerisms, as if his very essence could be changed at will. The world had lost quite the actor to the world of crime fighting. Sherlock smirked. "Call me Sherla."

"Sherla? Yes, alright." John felt a rumble of laughter rise in his chest and he smiled, reaching up to cup his cheek. "I was beginning to think myself disloyal for a moment. I haven't been tempted in years, you know."

"It's because I'm irresistible, Doctor Watson. You mustn't feel guilty," "Sherla" purred, and he lifted his hands to John's hips, eyes glittering with amusement beneath the colored contacts. "I'm sure your husband wouldn't mind."

Deciding to play along John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's, chuckling. "I'm not sure," he said. "He's awfully possessive. But I'm sure he'll get over it." "Sherla" hummed appreciatively and closed his eyes as John pulled him close and sealed their lips together.

Being a staunch-heterosexual-with-an-asterisk-named-Sherlock as John just so happened to be, John couldn't honestly say he didn't sometimes miss the feeling of skirts brushing against his legs or passive, glossed lips on his. Such thoughts rarely plagued him anymore, of course – being married to a man didn't leave much room for such thoughts, and the sex continued to be great even after five years – it was still a glorious sensation to welcome back as he kissed "Sherla's" scarlet painted lips, the experience frankly feminine despite the familiar, tell-tale roughness of Sherlock's chemical-burnt hands on his neck accompanying it.

He was so caught up in the sensation that he didn't think of the implications of such a thing, much less to close the door, as he ravaged the mouth of his disguised husband. Until:

"Oh dear – _John?_"

John startled and broke apart from the embrace at the shocked and (to his mild bewilderment) horrified voice of Mrs. Hudson. The woman stood wide-eyed at the door, mouth agape, clutching a feather duster. John blinked. "Oh, hello, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry we didn't close the door, we were a bit distract—"

Mrs. Hudson appeared to implode.

"John Hamish Watson I am _ashamed of you._ The very thought! The idea! Oh, I knew you were a ladies man in your day, sir, but – augh! What would Sherlock say? Oh, _dear,_ Sherlock…" Before John could follow her train of thought (much less correct it) Mrs. Hudson had descended, smacking John repeatedly over the head with the feather duster. "Shame on you! Shame! Oh, don't you think I won't be reporting this to your husband, John! I do _not_ tolerate adultery, not when I've seen it with my very eyes, oh no!" Mrs. Hudson turned a sharp eye on the supposed adultee. "You do know he's a married man, young lady?"

The "young lady" in question smiled. "I am aware," he said, amused. John gaped; Mrs. Hudson reeled.

"'Lock—!"

"The _disgrace!_ The _disloyalty! _Ohhh, my faith in humanity is destroyed!" Mrs. Hudson flipped the feather duster around and jabbed John in the stomach with the handle with expert precision; John gasped disbelievingly and did his best to swat it away and explain, but Mrs. Hudson was, at the moment, a mother scorned, and would hear nothing of it. "I thought you were a good man, Doctor Watson! A great man! Where did it go _wrong?_ Oh, goodness, you'll break poor Sherlock's heart!"

"Mrs. Hudson—" John was cut short by a feather duster to the face.

Sherlock apparently decided to have pity on his husband, because he pulled off the wig, popped out the contacts, and wiped off the remainder of the already-well-smeared lipstick onto his wrist before letting his posture fall into his usual stance. "I assure you, Mrs. Hudson," he said, usual deep drawl returning. "My honor does not need defending."

John nearly collapsed in relief when Mrs. Hudson whirled to face Sherlock. She stood there for a drawn moment before her stunned expression cracked and twisted into one of near deviousness. "Ohh, Sherlock! You dog! I should have known."

"Not to worry, Mrs. Hudson. I had John fooled for a bit as well, although he adamantly refused to bend his monogamous ways long enough for me to properly test the realistic qualities of these, which was a bit of a disappointment." Sherlock reached up and squeezed his… breasts. John paled; if there was ever something he'd never expected to observe, that was it. Mrs Hudson glanced between the two of them, eyebrows raised, then giggled.

"Oh, yes. Well. I'll leave you two to it, then." Mrs. Hudson tutted and shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind her. John blushed after her, still holding his stomach where she'd jabbed him; Mrs. Hudson was surprisingly strong.

Sherlock, seemingly entirely unfazed by the whole ordeal, tapped John on the shoulder. "May we continue where we left off, or is the 'mood' ruined?" Sherlock actually made the quotes in the air, still-faintly-colored lips pursed.

John turned, still wide eyed, and considered this. After a moment his eyes dropped to the object in Sherlock's hand. "Will you put the wig back on?"

"Of course."

"And, ah…" John reached somewhat cautiously up to Sherlock's chest and squeezed, trying quite hard not to blush while sure to put enough pressure so Sherlock would feel it on some level. "These?"

Sherlock bit back a snicker, clearly smug. "Yes, John. Surprisingly realistic, aren't they?"

"Yeah, actually… though I haven't actually felt any real ones for a while." John, apparently tossing inhibition out the window, leaned to press his face between them, grinning.

Sherlock smirked. "Well, don't get attached to them."

"Okay, I won't," John said. But, considering the blown condition of his pupils when he looked up again, he might have been lying. "You're wearing a bra. Are you wearing panties?"

"Of course."

"Lacy ones?"

Sherlock actually blushed at that question, but he nodded.

John's grin stretched from ear to ear.

"Can I take them off?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Brownie points for anyone who caught the Aerosmith lyrics in the title right away.<strong>_


	48. Of Rivers in Egypt and Sex in Stairwells

**A/N: Well it's 2:03, I'm still awake, and I randomly felt like taking a break from watching Supernatural (which is murdering me with angst, by the way) and typing up/submitting another one of these. Probably because this fic is almost-literally my only source of self-esteem right now. BUT ANYWAY do enjoy this… thing, which was meant to be complete crack/fluff/gay but ended up being all of that with a big, heaping side of angst-cake. Oh well.**

**Word Count: 2,600+**

**Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, mentions of John/ladies**

**Warning(s): Insufferable amounts of fluff, smutty content (but nothing too explicit), slightly dubcon, Lestrade being a… casual observer…, John trying way too hard to be a heterosexual, Sherlock's apparent abandonment issues, surprise hand-jobs, brief The Reichenbach Feels, the Yard's incapability to mind its own business, and aprons. Also, Anderson.**

* * *

><p><strong>Of Rivers in Egypt and Sex in Stairwells<strong>

* * *

><p>The first time it happened, John honestly didn't think much of it. This was Sherlock Holmes, after all – it was kind of a given that weird, invasive behavior might occur.<p>

So when Sherlock suddenly grabbed John one day while he was making tea and planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth, John's first reaction was, "What was that for?" And his second reaction, following a blank-eyed response of, "An experiment, John," had been, "Oh, alright." Because John was straight but he wasn't a hick and one little kiss from another man was no big deal, especially when that man was your presumably-asexual best friend.

It probably would have continued to not bother him, too, except it kept happening. All in spontaneous instances as well: once when John was in the middle of doing crunches, once when they were watching Star Trek, once when John was on the phone with Harry, twice when John was just getting out of the shower, three times in the back of a cab, once in an elevator, once on his way back from groceries, once just before John was leaving for a date (rather ruining it, actually), and even once right in front of a delighted Mrs. Hudson. Not that John was keeping track or anything. And every time, without fail, if John asked Sherlock would say, "An experiment, John. Do keep up." What he would not say, however, was just what kind of experiment would require this.

Needless to say, John was beginning to get suspicious. Sherlock was an oddball, granted. John had long accepted that – he put up with violin at three in the morning and human appendages beside the jam without batting an eye at this point. But Sherlock knew (he _must_ know) that people couldn't just go around kissing other people and not have it mean anything. It was weirding John out, to be frank. More so because, against every effort to the contrary, John was almost starting to look forward to the impromptu smooches. John did his best to convince himself the anticipation was just because the encounters were always so out of the blue, but it was getting harder to prove to even himself. Every kiss was getting increasingly intimate, transitioning from on the cheek to full on the mouth, from lasting a second to lasting a minute, from still and chaste to heated and probing. And if John said he never kissed back, well, he'd be lying. But it was surely just heat of the moment or… something equally heterosexual.

Point was, it was starting to freak John out. When he told Sherlock as much the detective just scoffed at him ("Honestly, John, no need to have angst over the matter. Need I remind you that I am much thinner than you? With your army training there is no doubt that you could easily push me away if you wanted to.") so it was clear that using reason as means to an end was out of the question. For a while, though, John opted to suffer in silence – Sherlock's quirks were usually sorted out on their own, and there were worse things than kisses.

The first breaking point – and, in many ways, the last – was on a Thursday. (John never did get the hang of Thursdays.)

It was a fairly typical, run of the mill murder really, if murder can be called typical. But Lestrade had Sherlock called in anyway, an effort to encourage him not to cause any trouble out of boredom. John couldn't say he wasn't grateful, even if he _was_ missing yet another date with what's-her-name-Hailey-or-something for this. At that particular moment Sherlock was exchanging snark with Sally Donovan and John, more or less to hide his own snickers at Sherlock's unending wit than anything else, bent down to examine the body. However seemingly run of the mill this case really was, the tactic was still brutal enough. The killer had stabbed the victim at least twenty times before disposing of the body in a back alley, where it had been found a good time later by a dog-walker.

John was just checking the victim's head for signs of trauma when he was suddenly being yanked to his feet by the collar of his shirt. Struggling to clear his throat John stumbled around, shaking the grasp off his shirt and moving into a defensive stance automatically at the disturbance. He didn't know just what he'd been expecting, really. It hadn't been for Sherlock to fling his arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss, definitely.

For an (admittedly bloated) instant the time and place flew from John's mind, as did any reticence, and John tilted his head and parting his lips to grant Sherlock's demands, eyes falling shut. Sherlock pulled him close, tongue sliding into John's mouth and running against the back of his teeth. John very nearly moaned.

Then the moment was gone and reality snapped into place.

The first thing John registered was Anderson, shouting at the top of his lungs: "Ha! Ha! Fuck you guys, because I called it! I called it! Cough up the dough, Donovan!" And Lestrade, red faced and staring in the corner of his eye as Sally threw a wad of cash at both him and a victory-dancing Anderson.

The second thing John registered was that he hadn't done anything about it. Perhaps a bit more roughly than strictly necessary John pushed Sherlock away, heat rising to his feet. Sherlock stumbled backwards, bruise-lipped and assumingly as unaffected as ever by the turn of events.

"What in the hell, Sherlock!" John cried, gesturing wildly.

Sherlock cast him a bored look. "An _experiment,_ John. We _have_ been over this."

John gaped at him, disbelief evident. "Sherlock, we—!" He halted, eyes darting to the Yarders. They were all carrying on as you might think from their places a few yards away: Sally looking disgusted, Anderson gloating, Lestrade blatantly staring, and various Others doing their best to appear as if they hadn't even observed at all. Grabbing Sherlock by the shoulder he pulled him aside, absolutely seething with anger and, more importantly, embarrassment. "We are at a _crime scene,_" he hissed.

Sherlock blinked at him with deliberate slowness, frowning. "You are right, John. We are at a crime scene." Sherlock glanced over John's shoulder at the body, eyes glinting. "What can you report to me was the cause of death?"

John's eyes widened, clear rage flashing through their depths. "That isn't the point and you know it!" he cried.

Sherlock blinked at him, repeatedly this time, and in rapid succession, as if actually backtracking to consider this. Then, tilting his head slightly to the side, he said, "You look like a tomato, John."

John released Sherlock's shoulder with a rough shove and spun halfway around, glaring at him over his shoulder. Sherlock hesitated, smug blankness dropping from his features.

"Oh," he said. "You really are upset. Why are you upset?"

"You…" John threw his hands up as if in surrender, scoffing. "You're actually unbelievable! Fucking unbelievable, Sherlock! Incredible!"

John made to march away at that, fully intending to box Anderson's ears on his way out, only to have Sherlock catch him by the elbow and drag him back again. John glared, nearly tripping over his own feet at the restraint. "_What?"_ John snapped, jerking his arm away.

Sherlock's voice was at least three octaves too high for a moment – "Are you—"— but he cut off and lowered it, ducking to meet John's eyes. "You aren't going to leave me now, are you?" he whispered.

John froze. The unadulterated pleading in Sherlock's eyes was unexpected and overwhelming to the point that John felt all the fight go out of him. John groaned and let his shoulders sag, angry expression falling to a helpless half-smile.

"No, you giant two year old." John slid his arm around Sherlock's shoulders (awkward with the height difference, but Sherlock was crouching anyway), pulling him into a half-hug. "I'm not going anywhere," he said.

"You're certain?"

"Yes."

Sherlock's gaze dropped to the floor, then up to meet John's eyes again. "Cause of death?" he said.

The rest of that particular Thursday went without further incident, everyone more-or-less getting back to business. They solved the case quickly, or rather Sherlock announced "It was his secret lover – he's American and he eats a lot of sugar taffy. Enjoy the search and the credit, Lestrade" and they dropped off back to 221B without having actually closed anything. Far too boring for Sherlock's tastes. John was just glad to be away from the Yarders and their incessant gay-for-your-roommate suggestions and to put the entire "experiment" ordeal behind him.

The next day, however, on the way back from his shift at the surgery John suddenly found himself pinned to the wall in a back alley, Sherlock's lips sealed against his. John gasped and pushed Sherlock's face away, face burning. "I thought we cleared up!" he cried. "No more of this, remember?"

"The deal," Sherlock said, pushing John's hand away, "was 'not in public.' Correct me if I'm wrong, John…" Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's, gaze penetrating and unwavering "…but this is not public, and at the moment I am not open to renegotiation."

Any arguments John might have liked to claim to have had were swallowed in short order by Sherlock's impatient mouth. Sherlock pressed his lips to John's again and John's mouth open with his own, not that it took much effort. John shuddered and accepted his fate, tilting his head back and allowing his mouth to be plundered. It was only when Sherlock's hands were around his neck, thumbs pressed domineeringly against his throat that John tried to voice any argument again, but by then Sherlock had shoved off of him and taken off down the street. John stared after him, frazzled, and tried to pretend he hadn't felt anything pressing against his thigh. Just an experiment, after all. Harmless.

And they didn't talk about it. John very nearly had himself convinced there was nothing to talk _about_ most days. It was just how things were after a while, expected and accepted without question. Just another Sherlockian quirk to add to the list that the Watsons of the world learned to deal with. No big deal.

He told himself this even as things progressed. Even after Sherlock pinned him to the door of their cab and kissed him rougher than he'd ever been kissed and far longer than before and worked needy, shameless moans from the back of his throat. Even after Sherlock cornered him in his own surgery room one night and pressed his own stethoscope around his neck as he kissed him until he was quite literally breathless. Even when Bond night suddenly became Sherlock's lips moving from his mouth to his neck and Sherlock's hands sliding under his shirt to touch him and John giving in to the curiosity and returning the gesture. Even when Sherlock sank his teeth into his shoulder and marked him, whispered "mine" against his sweat-glossed skin after yet another criminal chase. Even after John missed a date with some woman because he was preoccupied with Sherlock's hand down his pants and hearing Sherlock pant his name against his lips and trying not to cry out in the Baker Street stairwell. Even after John might've reciprocated in the back booth at Angelo's and touched Sherlock in a place he'd only ever touched himself and drank in Sherlock's barely-muffled screams and wanton twist of face in the dim candlelight. Even when Sherlock very nearly snarled at any woman who approached John anymore and took to pointedly fucking him over before every potentially successful date. Even when Sherlock jumped into John's shower one morning and threw him against the glass door and touched him everywhere and anywhere and John slid soapy hands around to feel Sherlock's rear-end because what was stopping him really. Even when Sherlock very nearly went down on him in the back of one of Mycroft's cars, when John would have surely let him had "Anthea" not opened the door at the last moment.

Likewise, neither party said anything when it passed sexual into just intimate and even domestic. Even when Sherlock made surprise breakfast that wasn't poisoned or anything and kissed him on the forehead in that cheesy Kiss The Cook apron on Valentine's Day. Even when Sherlock started cuddling John's proclaimed Official Movie Night. Even when Sherlock held his hand under the desk in Lestrade's office and whenever he found the proper obscured opportunity. Even when Sherlock started making a habit of crawling in John's bed each case-free night and wrapped his long body up around his, even if Sherlock wasn't really tired, and it became such an expected thing that the bed started feeling empty without Sherlock in it with him. Even when John started having bursts of jealous rage, be it towards "Jim from I.T." and Miss Adler to random people who dared look approvingly in Sherlock's direction. Even when Sherlock gave him such deep, lost looks when John got ready to leave for dates with women that John eventually just stopped dating altogether. Even when Sherlock sometimes whispered sweet nothings in his ear as they touched, and sometimes John would whisper them back, and sometimes John swore his heart hurt when Sherlock left for international cases. Even when John quickly realized his first thoughts during a close-encounter-of-the-deadly-criminal-kind were of Sherlock, and when they made narrow escapes they'd collapse into relieved laughter and sometimes life-confirming cuddles and kisses and more. Even when one night they giggled and stumbled and fumbled their way home from a crime scene but didn't make it to the bed or even past the stairwell but that turned out to be OK since they were never normal anyway, and afterwards Sherlock laughed and he said, "The can't call me a virgin anymore, can they, John?" and they forgot to have the 'experiment' talk afterwards. Even when Sherlock started introducing John to people as his partner and both of them forgot to elaborate even when people gave them startled looks in response to the implications or glance knowingly at their comfortable stances beside each other. Always, always, they did not talk about it. Usually, they forgot there was anything to talk about.

But when Sherlock died John's heart broke, and he knew. He knew his life would be empty without him, pointless and aimless and hopeless and all other kinds of less than it should be. He knew that what had begun as an experiment had become his entire life, life with adventure and promise and Sherlock Holmes. It came to him in those last moments, those moments too late, far too late, and still John could not say it. He wanted to say it, to shout it, to shriek it at the top of his lungs until there was no air left for him to breathe, but instead he watched Sherlock fall with the words cold on his lips.

And when Sherlock came back to life and gathered John into his arms the first thing he said, before the apologies and the explanations and the pleas was a promise, he whispered, "I love you," and John wept and laughed and kissed Sherlock deeply and whispered, "I know."

Yet still, they did not talk about it, but they didn't really need to. It was all there on their lips, not spoken but sealed one to the other until they became so familiar that no words would suffice besides. That, John figured, was the closest thing to Happily Ever After he was bound to get, and it was the closest he'd ever care to have.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews would be superb. Also, if you get the joke in the title, more brownie points are available; it's kind of obvious really but then, I have a strange sense of humor.<strong>_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Additional Note of Semi-Importance: I'm probably going to end up compiling a oneshot collection for Supernatural as well, because I'm steamrolling through Season 7 and it's all coming to an end soon and I have needs, damn it. The only reason I'm including this little detail here, in a Sherlock fic, is because A) everyone should watch Supernatural and bask in its glory and B) adventuring deeper into this fandom is probably going to lead to more infrequent updates around here. I.e., Mycroft is going to get fat. Well, fatter. But no worries, I won't be abandoning this on any scale anytime soon. And… that's it! Toodleoo!<strong>_


	49. Gawk

**A/N: Mycroft is fat… with that out there, I have no excuse for my absence except for a Writer's Block from Hell. I fear that this tiny thing isn't signifying an end to this, seeing as A) this is short&crappy, B) my writers block really isn't even gone, and C) I forgot what I was going to put for C. Oh well. Hope I can submit something quality soon… /tears/  
>On that note, I've always wanted to try one of those 221B things. Too bad my first one is… this... thing.<strong>

**Word Count: 221(B)**

**Ship(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): Really short and crappy. Really just an excuse to write that A/N. Also: body worship, bad metaphors, John is creepin', and Sherlock being…cute?**

* * *

><p><strong>Gawk<strong>

* * *

><p>Sometimes John found himself staring at Sherlock. He couldn't explain the urge – as beautiful as Sherlock was, he was so familiar by now that John should've grown accustomed his presence. This was not the case. He equated Sherlock to the sun – always there, but never not dazzling. Not to mention dangerous to stare at. John often feared that he might go blind looking too long.<p>

But what a last sight to see! John could spend hours, days even, tracing the contours of Sherlock's body. He wouldn't even have to touch (though God, he'd love to). John treated Sherlock like piece of art, forever cherished, never fondled. John wondered how long it had been since Sherlock had really been touched.

John generally managed to contain himself. He could bide his time, forever if necessary. But there were moments where some random, unpredictable thing would set John off kilter. A certain way the light would hit Sherlock's eyes. A certain trill to Sherlock's normally controlled baritone voice. A certain curve of lips when something actually surprised him. A wrinkle of nose. A curl of the toes. John never saw them coming, these tiny things, but they hit him hard and he had to physically turn away – sometimes even leave the apartment completely – to regain his composure.

So, yeah. It was getting pretty bad.

* * *

><p><em><strong>I'm going to plea for forgiveness rather than reviews this time kkthnxbai.<strong>_


	50. In Which John Watson's Stomach

**A/N: Oh, wow, an update! And not a late one! I hope this means I'm winning the war against Writers Block. And, due to popular request, I'll refrain from self-deprecating comments and simply wish you enjoyment.  
><strong>

**Word Count: 840  
><strong>

**Ship(s): pre-John/Sherlock (or perhaps cautiously-platonic-John/Sherlock if that floats your boat)  
><strong>

**Warning(s): insufferable amounts of fluff, sleepy!Sherlock (which I suppose is a bit OOC but I was prompted), weird dreams, and general sickly sweetness. Also, John can't type.**

* * *

><p><strong>In Which John's Stomach Makes a Rather Good Pillow<strong>

* * *

><p>Sherlock couldn't remember. He couldn't remember, but he dreamed of foggy stars and warm hands clasped and laughter intermingled, of rain and sopping hair and blue eyes, of breathless flight. He resurfaced buzzing and warm, gradually dissolving into the waking world.<p>

It was still late, past midnight at least. In the middle of winter, the poorly heated flat should have chilled Sherlock to the bone, even under the blanket. But Sherlock was comfortable, perfectly so, finding himself tucked into a warm softness. The feeling was almost enough o slide Sherlock back into slumber. He was barely waking now, still peering through a sleepy fog. It took him a while to realize that he was curled on John's lap.

This realization really should have been unsettling. Sherlock was typically adverse to touch, not to mention how vulnerable he was like this, and it wasn't as if he cuddled with John on a regular basis. But all this knowledge did was fill him with a swell of something warm and pleasant and near-suffocating. John was warm. John was good. John was his best friend. Sherlock was too exhausted to reason through it any further than that.

Through the fog of near-sleep, Sherlock observed with lazy abandon. John's stomach was soft and pillowy under Sherlock's, rising and falling with steady breath. The quiet sound of each exhale and the slow, arrhythmic tapping of Jon's fingers on laptop keys worked as a sedative. Eyes barely cracked Sherlock could just make out the side of John's arm and shoulder, muscles flexing slightly in his effort to move silently. Every so often, John would pause, and Sherlock could feel his gaze prickling his skin or fingers threading through his hair. Once, after a long, tense hesitation, soft lips brushing over Sherlock's forehead. It was these things combined that stirred The Feeling within him and an unconscious happy noise rumbled through his chest, breaching his lips in a breath.

John's breath hitched, startled. Sherlock twisted to peer up at him, eyes half lidded. John was blushing profusely, but his smile was soft and easy. "It's late," John whispered. His hands were big and calloused and familiar over Sherlock's cheek, swiping stray curls from his face. Sherlock wondered vaguely if the smile stretching over his lips looked as stupid as it felt, but he dismissed the thought in favor of drowning in John's navy eyes, stunned by the feelings reflected there. He'd have to examine that further, he thought. Later.

Sherlock reached out, pushing a limp hand to John's neck. John might've turned scarlet at that, but Sherlock couldn't be sure, attention occupied by the way John's Adam's apple bobbed and the broad smile in the corner of his eye. "I don't need sleep," Sherlock mumbled, voice thick with contradictive fatigue. John chuckled and Sherlock could feel it against his temple, vibrating through his chest.

"You were awake for nearly two weeks this time, 'Lock. You've only crashed for a few hours yet." John continued stroking Sherlock's hair; the feeling pulled pleasure from Sherlock's scalp and down his spine to curl in his toes. "Sleep," John whispered.

"Mm…" Sherlock closed his eyes, only to have them snap open again. "Oh… groceries! Groceries! I was… up the stairs!" His eyes grew wide, clutching at John's jumper. John laughed again, gentler this time.

"I caught you," John said. "Cleaned it up. Don't worry about it."

"Hmm…" Sherlock yawned, hand slipping down to toy with the collar of John's jumper for a moment before twisting and burying his face into John's tummy. "Warm. How'd you get so warm, John?" he mumbled. John sucked in another breath, barely catching the 'aww' as it made a leap out of him and instead releasing a tiny, breathy noise. He probably found Sherlock cute. If he'd been at full capacity, Sherlock might have been offended. Or flattered. Maybe just embarrassed. Sherlock yawned again.

"I'll scold you later," John assured him. Apparently deciding being guarded was for squares John leaned in to kiss the back of Sherlock's head, rubbing gentle circles in the nape of his neck. Sherlock released a deep sigh, smile tugging at the edge of his lips. Oh, dear, he was sleepy. In fact, he hadn't felt this gloriously drowsy in years.

"Thank you," Sherlock said; he was muffled against John's jumper-clad stomach, but John heard it.

"Any time. What are friends for?" Sherlock could practically feel the 'warm fuzzy feeling' radiating off of his companion; if it had been anyone else, it would have been disgusting rather than endearing. John rested a hand flush against the back of Sherlock's neck and the other reached for his laptop again. "Sleep," John repeated, running his thumb under Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock might have said something, but it was incoherent to both of them and he settled against John, submitting to the pull of slumber again.

The sound of John's valiant struggle to type with one hand lulled Sherlock back to sleep.

This time, he dreamt of stars again, but this time they felt like home.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Reviews would be fantastic.<em>**

**_p.s. 50th chapter! -throws confetti-_**


	51. Quiet in the Palace

**A/N: I think my writers block is actually comatose, guys. Meaning, Mycroft's new diet is finally working; he's pretty happy, but I think Greg might be mourning the loss of the love handles. Hmm. Anyway, uh, enjoy this angst.**

**Word Count: 830-something  
><strong>

**Ship(s): John/Sherlock  
><strong>

**Warning(s): Angst, apathy, and abrupt endings. Also, Sherlock deals with loneliness in an unhealthy fashion. Post-Reichenbach depression. **

* * *

><p><strong>Quiet in the Palace<strong>

* * *

><p>Sherlock hadn't meant for it to happen. Flying into the apartment, heart pounding in his chest, the familiar rush of adrenalin through his blood has him bursting with uncontrolled excitement. He very nearly does a cartwheel as he rushes into the kitchen, but he hasn't done one of those since he was thirteen and he wasn't sure he wants to attempt it now (he was much shorter then). And best of all, his mind; his gears were turning frantically, information and theories and deductions rushing behind his eyes and spilling out through his mouth.<p>

"Australia! Yes, of course Australia, didn't you see the dirt on the boots? The burn on his nose? The grime beneath his fingernails – _yes, _it has to be Australia! But the question is where will he go next?" Sherlock spun around, pulsating with excitement, hands raised in an overwhelming impulse to push his temples. "Ohh, Moran is cleverer than I thought, much cleverer, I"

And that's where he stops, because only an idiot talks to himself.

He even left the skull.

Sherlock lets his hands fall to his sides, excitement blown out of him like a mace to the stomach. And he does know what that feels like, and the feeling had been decidedly Not as Unpleasant as This. He can feel his own words echoing off the walls around him, the only other sound the belated blips the fire alarm gives off every minute. Sherlock hadn't changed the battery on that thing, hadn't had time, hadn't bothered, but the sound drives him mad now. A tiny, shrill reminder that, yes, he's alone again. The idea really shouldn't bother him – Mycroft was right. Caring _isn't_ an advantage, it's what put him in this mess in the first place, and now that he's alone he's safe again. Or, well, as safe as he'll ever be. He should be happy being alone. Alone is what protects him.

The insufferable fire alarm blips again, and Sherlock swears it's mocking him. If John were here, he'd have fixed it by now. He would have had to get a step latter or stand on a stack of Encyclopedias to reach it, but he would have, all the while huffing and puffing about how really Sherlock should be the one doing this, since he's the taller of them and he's the reason they need to be careful about the fire alarm in the first place. And maybe he'd step down after he was finished and ruffle Sherlock's hair and tell him that was alright, anyway, he knows he's busy chasing Moran and

Sherlock digs his fingernails into his palms. That sort of imagery is what stalks him, taunts him, scratches at the edges of his subconscious like an itch he can't scratch. He's tried deleting it, these things, but every time he summons the memories he can never find the heart to do so. Everything about John is too precious to delete, however seemingly irrelevant to the Work as they were; like art, Sherlock thinks. No point to it, art. But it's cherished just like anything. To delete it would be worse than sin. So instead Sherlock tucks the memories into a box, nails it shut, and buries it in the back of his mind palace, under the floorboards.

What good that did him. Sherlock smiles, but it's an empty expression, mocking himself. Now he wanders through his own mind like a mad man, tortured by the whispers of memories and imagery as Baker Street scratches away at its coffin under the floor. Emotions demanding to be felt, to be recognized. It occurs to Sherlock many times to say the Hell with sin, with tragedy, madly throwing himself into his mind in an effort to stamp the mad premonitions out, but to no avail. He's lost the place in his own mind palace, too carefully hidden from even himself; he cannot remember just where he's buried Baker Street. The scraping and the whispers sound equally horrible no matter which room he wanders to.

Tricked by his own metaphor. Sherlock would have laughed, were he the type. Instead he ran his hands through his hair and released a shuddering breath, closed his eyes, composed himself. He was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, sociopath, mastermind. He didn't need Baker Street, he didn't need friends, he didn't need love, and he didn't need John Watson. He could cope. He would cope. All he had to do was put up his shields, just like before, rebuild his old apathy, and move on. Defeat Moriarty, who still gave him trouble even as a corpse. Kill Moran, who still posed a massive threat all on his own. Untangle the web; put the pieces back together again. Clear his name. Dwelling on his own loneliness – being lonely in the first place – would not aid him. He had to get back to work.

Opening his eyes again Sherlock cracked his neck, shook off the ugly feeling twisting in his stomach, and strode back into the living room.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Review?<strong>_

_**p.s. Have you guys ever been on oneword(dot)com? It's a nice way to get the creative juices flowing; if you haven't I'd recommend checking it out, it's a nice exercise. **_


	52. Cheesy as Shit

**A/N: This is how I fight writers block, guys. With fluff. Endless, sleepy, fluffy fluff until the end of time. Once it's finally dead I'm sure I'll eventually produce something with substance... hm.**

**Word Count: 1,200-and-something**

**Ship(s): John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): Consulting boyfriends being ridiculously fluffy. Light mentions of sex. Possible slight-OOC. Sherlock is a weirdo and John curses like a sailor when it's stupid o'clock. Also: talk of butts.**

* * *

><p><strong>Cheesy as Shit<strong>

* * *

><p>"I'm bored John."<p>

"Bored bored bored."

"Bored."

"The acid experiment didn't work, John."

"It might have burned a small hole in the floorboards though."

"I'll pay for the damage, John."

"John."

"This is boring."

"The skull makes for better conversation, John."

"_John."_

"I'm bored."

"John, your arse—"

A pillow collided with Sherlock's face with a whump, actually startling him. John remained completely immobile on the bed, face first in the pillow he hadn't just used to assault his boyfriend's head. Sherlock grinned – _finally, a reaction_ – and plopped onto the edge of John's bed. "That was rude, John."

John said something that was probably wildly inappropriate and crude, but his voice was thankfully muffled by the pillow. Sherlock rolled his eyes and wiggled closer to John, scooting his butt up against his thigh. That seemed to get his attention, but not in the way Sherlock had hoped; John lifted his head and glared at him, practically radiating doom.

"Sherlock, I don't care if your dick is about to fucking _explode_, it is _stupid o'clock_ and I am _not_ getting out of this God damn bed until I've gotten at least six fucking hours of fucking sleep."

"I don't want sex, John," Sherlock said blandly, "I'm just _bored_." It wasn't exactly the truth – while his sex drive was almost frighteningly low normally, John _did things_ to him. He shook this thought off and scooted his butt against his boyfriend's thigh again. John groaned.

"You wouldn't be so sodding bored if you slept like a normal person, you stupid shit."

"Your crude language is appalling, doctor."

"Fuck you, sir. Get some God damn rest or get the Hell out."

John buried his face in the pillow again, shoulders rigid. Sherlock pouted but was not overcome, wiggling ever closer. "Fine, then," Sherlock drawled, "I'll rest." Just when John seemed almost ready to relax at his words Sherlock wormed his arms around John's waist and, after a fair amount of fidgeting, rested his chin between John's shoulder blades.

John's chest rumbled, this time with mirth rather than malice. "Comfortable?"

"Miraculously so." Sherlock nuzzled his nose into the thin material of John's shirt, breathed in his scent. After a week of nonstop legwork and two days without a shower, he really should have smelled awful but somehow he didn't. Humming contently, Sherlock slid his hands down John's torso and up under his shirt, pressing his palms against the warmth of John's belly.

A shrill noise escaped from the back of John's throat and Sherlock felt his stomach suck in under his touch. "Mother of fucking _Jesus_, your hands are cold as shit!" Frantic, John attempted to move away, but Sherlock had him pinned and only slid his hands farther up, pressing between his ribs. John groaned, peering over his shoulder to glare at his aggressor.

Sherlock offered a lazy smirk. "I assure you," he said, "feces is typically much warmer than my hands late at night, as it leaves the body at a slightly higher temperature than the body temperature from which it came, which is usually around 98.5, 98.6. My hands and feet are typically colder than that, at least on a surface level, due to poor circulation to those areas."

John stared at him for a long, bloated moment, before his expression finally cracked into an affectionate grin. "Damn. I fell in love with a weird motherfucker."

"Yes." Sherlock managed to arch his body so that he could steal a kiss on John's nose without removing his hands from John's warm underbelly before burying his face between his shoulder blades again. "And apparently I fell in love with a sailor," he added, a bit bitterly.

"It's four o'clock in the morning, 'Lock. I'll curse all I fucking want."

"How charming."

John chuckled, a fond noise from someone running on three hours of shallow sleep and a coffee consumed five hours ago. "You're a real prick, you know that? As in honestly _the most_ annoying person I have ever encountered."

Sherlock snorted. "Oh," he said. "That hurts my feelings." The sarcasm was near tangible; John swore he could feel it leaking down his back. The sensation was quickly wiped off the map by Sherlock's lips on the back of his neck, his nose brushing the short hairs on the nape of his neck.

"Ugh. Bastard. Come here." John flipped over, nearly sending Sherlock rolling off the bed had he not wound his arms around Sherlock's waist simultaneously. After much wiggling around and playful shoving they found a successful sleeping position, Sherlock tucked against John's chest with his long limbs tangled around John's body, John with his nose buried in Sherlock's hair and his arms laying loosely around Sherlock's middle, blankets pulled up to their shoulders. Sherlock's freezing feet were pressed up against John's thighs, a battle won with the compromise of Sherlock letting John keep his hands on his arse at any given time throughout the night. It was like this that they laid, quietly sharing each other's warmth, for almost an hour before Sherlock spoke again, this time gentle and undemanding:

"John?"

With nothing more than a small groan of complaint John's eyes cracked open again. "Seriously, Sherlock?" There was no irritation in his voice, though, and a sleepy smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Bored again?" he said.

"No. I love you." Sherlock met John's eyes for a moment, completely serious; John stared back, struck stupid. Sherlock shrugged and tucked his face back against John's neck. "That's it. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," John replied automatically. Then, arms tightening around Sherlock, he mumbled, "I love you too." Sherlock smiled and John could feel the curve of his lips against the crook of his neck. He laughed. "Shit, 'Lock. When did we become _this_ fucking couple? Relationships weren't even your area a few months ago and now we're waking each other up for… for fucking _cuddle sessions_."

"And whispering sweet nothings," Sherlock mumbled, pressing his nose to John's Adam's apple. "Don't forget the sweet nothings."

John snorted. "How could I? You're cheesy as shit when you want to be."

"You're cheesy as shit all the time."

"Hey now!" John swatted Sherlock on the arse, eliciting an uncharacteristic 'eep' noise out of the other man. Chuckling, John returned his face to its rightful place buried in Sherlock's hair. "Alright, it's way past my bed time now, 'Lock. We've established that we love each other very, very much. Can I please return to dreamland now?"

"Boring," said Sherlock, but he yawned and snuggled closer and thought that maybe, just maybe, he might get an hour or two of sleep himself. His feet _were_ cozy wedged between John's legs. Still fucking cold to John, and he shivered a little. But he couldn't complain.

* * *

><p><strong>If anyone was wondering, yes, I did in fact do a Google search on the relative average temperature of human feces. Oddly, there were already a great number of people who had already asked this question to the poop experts of the world (who do exist, apparently). When I first saw it I was like "what the fuck why would you even wonder that" and then I realized...<strong>

**Anyways: Reviews are cool. I almost have 300 (wow!) so that's neat.**


	53. Goodnight, London Dear

**A/N: And then, from the depths of fluffy Hell rises… more Post-TRF angst. Because I'm not getting repetitive at all. Right. Are you excited yet?  
>Word Count: 708<br>Ship(s): implied Sherlock/John  
>Warning(s): Somewhat-dark!soldier!John. Suggests alive!Moriarty. Paparazzi bashing. Grim themes. Hints of PSTD. Weird dialogue fashioning (I think I've reread <strong>_**The Road**_** one too many times). Also, Lestrade feels.**

* * *

><p><strong>Goodnight, London Dear<strong>

* * *

><p>Not everything changes when Sherlock falls. John still saw London as a battlefield. It was one of those things that wouldn't go away no matter what, even if somehow John moved on, found a lady, had kids, and went domestic. John would always be a soldier. Always feel eyes on him and wonder if he was about to be sniped. Mentally plot out escape routes everywhere he went. Pat his pocket for the revolver he was no longer allowed to carry (but carried regardless).<p>

John wasn't especially bothered by this or, at least, he wouldn't be, except the war he saw in London was a losing one. Lestrade lost his job at the Yard. Molly quit her job at the morgue after promptly cussing out the chief superintendent and throwing a box of tissues at Sally Donovan. Former supporters now left hate comments on the blog John no longer updated. Mycroft, who was in charge of practically everyone, did nothing. 221 Baker street was frequently vandalized to the point where Mrs. Hudson rented 221C out for free to one of the Homeless Network on the basis that he would gladly beat the shit out of anyone who went through with their threats to break into the house. The supporters remaining were far and few between these days, either forgetting or changing their mind. No amount of Believe graffiti could clear Sherlock's name anyway.

Even now, three years later, reporters would come to John's door, or to his workplace, or sometimes just right up to him in the street and ask him for an interview. Do you feel betrayed, they would ask. Did you know about the lies, they'd pry. Did you help bury the bodies?

During the first year, John would tell them off – Sherlock isn't a fraud, he'd say, I knew him, he was my best friend, and the only body I helped bury was him – but soon John would just keep walking. Reporters were nothing, just blips on the radar. There were too many crimes unsolved, too many mysteries still raveled, too many kidnapped innocents found just a little too late without Sherlock around to find them for John to bother with blips.

No one noticed it. No one made the connection, but criminals were getting cleverer again. Leaving less evidence. Planting false leads. Disappearing without a trace. Looking more and more like Moriarty. Gregory was the one who raise the alarm on the topic, but no one listened to him. Of course they didn't. James Moriarty was Richard Brook and Richard Brook was dead; nobody believed the weathered, broken ex-cop who was once a friend to the fallen consulting detective. No one listened. No one but John Watson.

When Greg told John of his suspicions he'd expected an explosion. Rage. Panic. Despair. Blank shock. Something. Something, but not what he got. Greg told John that Moriarty might be back and John grinned, wide and face-slitting and manic. What is it? Greg asked, and John said, It's ironic. Real ironic. Greg flinched and he asked what they were going to do about this. John chuckled, said, I won't do anything, Greg. I'll say, good riddance, people will get what's coming to them. Maybe you'll do something, but you're a better man than me if you're gonna keep it up for a city that doesn't give a damn about you.

Greg stopped looking at John the same after that, but John didn't take much notice.

John walked through London and he saw a battlefield. He saw people existing just waiting to die. Watched people no better than the dirt under their feet prosper. Bore witness to the good people, the innocent people, a dying race dying all the faster. All of them are blind and bumbling never questioning the news they hear, the reassurances they're offered. Never asking, never acting. They float through life unaware of the web weaved around them. Even John could not see it, not like Sherlock always could, but he could feel it, quivering and creeping ever closer, and he could hear what it whispered. And John knew.

London would fall with Sherlock Holmes, slowly but surely. And as the city burned, John would laugh, and he would say, I told you so.

* * *

><p><strong>ALSO: Jeeeesssuuuussss, 300 reviews! <strong>_**300**_**! 3-freakin-hundred! I'm near rolling around on the floor in a flood of disbelief and joy here, guys. I just. Shit. I actually can't— **

**I JUST LOVE YOU ALL A LOT OKAY? **

**Ubububu…**

**-DC**


	54. Blood and Sugar

**A/N: This is Post Reichenbach … Fluff? What? But yes, indeed, that's more or less what this is. Uh. Enjoy.**

**Word Count: 1,900-something**

**Ship(s): pre-John/Sherlock**

**Warning(s): Kind of weird. Cussing. Blood, references to violence, stitches. Probably not medically accurate at all. Also, Gingerbach/Gingerlock. I think that's it.**

* * *

><p><strong>Blood and Sugar<strong>

* * *

><p>Ginger.<p>

Against all reason, this was the first thing John noticed. Gone were the dark curls that once framed Sherlock's pale face, replaced by a head of shirt, close-cut hair of startling orange hue. Oddly enough, it sort of brought out his eyes.

Far more reasonably, the second thing John noticed was the blood.

There was no time for shock. If John wanted to freak out, to scream and demand answers, to kiss him or punch him in the face or maybe faint, it would have to wait, because Sherlock stumbled forward and crumpled onto the floor in a limp, bleeding heap. John had to be in army doctor mode.

With a brief glance around the hallway for any (other) intruders – you never knew with Sherlock – John gathered the detective into his arms and pulled him into the living room, laying him carefully on the rug. As a doctor he knew he probably shouldn't move him, he should just call an ambulance. As a soldier, John knew he had to get Sherlock out of the open. And, as a friend and (former?) partner of Sherlock, John would not bring him to any hospital. Hospitals and Holmes do not mix and, considering everything, it probably wouldn't be safe regardless. Instead, he propped Sherlock's head up on a throw pillow and flew into his bedroom to fetch the first aid kit. When he rushed back again, Sherlock was conscious again, bleary blue eyes peering up at him.

"John." Sherlock lifted a hand as if to touch his face or perhaps hold his hand but he waved and it fell back to his side. His face twisted in pain. Had John not steeled himself, he might've croaked at the sight. Instead, he hushed him and quickly set to work unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt and exposing the wound. The amount of blood was unnerving, even more so when the black dress shirt was peeled away leaving only alabaster skin to contrast the sticky scarlet. Biting down on the inside of his cheek John grappled for a rag to put pressure on the wound. Sherlock sucked in a pained gasp, shuddering, and John winced.

"You got stabbed," John said, not a question. Sherlock nodded. "Whoever did this – they're taken care of?" Sherlock nodded again, a smirk tracing his lips before being wiped out by a grimace as John tore the rag away. John reached for the disinfectant.

"John," Sherlock said again, and his voice was just how John remembered. John scowled and swatted Sherlock's arm.

"No. Shut up. Don't try and speak." John uncapped the disinfectant, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the smell. John's eyes narrowed. "You can't die on me, you got that? Not of blood loss and not of infection. I won't have that bullshit again. Now hold your breath, this is going to hurt like Hell."

It did hurt like Hell. Sherlock hissed and grasped at the edge of the rug, fingernails digging into his palms; it took all of John's willpower to ignore the pained expression on Sherlock's face and keep working. It was all he could do not to just stare at him, to revel and realize that _fuck he's alive he's alive oh shit _– there would be time for all that later. Tomorrow, maybe; now, stitches.

As John slid the first stitch through Sherlock's skin Sherlock sighed, reaching up to touch John's side. John had to bite his lip to keep from releasing a sigh at the familiar touch, concentrating fully on stitching the wound. Sherlock smiled, eyes squeezed shut. "John, I… I'm sorry."

"Hush," John whispered. "I told you to hush."

"I did it all for you." Sherlock's voice was hard and desperate. "I had to. Believe me, I had to, I…"

"Hush," John repeated and this time Sherlock did. John worked in equal silence, stitching and sterilizing and bandaging until the only thing left was to clean the blood away and, then, to talk. _And say what?_ John clenched his jaw and leaned back. He could feel pressure closing in on him – panic, confusion, euphoria, shock, and a rhythmic throbbing in his chest that threatened to spread to his skull and wet his cheeks. John swallowed hard. "Can you stand?" he asked. Sherlock hesitated, then shook his head. "Right, okay. I'll get a damp rag; don't move."

"I'm not going anywhere," Sherlock said.

John stood and hurried to the bathroom before his throat could close off, shutting the door behind him. He stumbled to a halt in front of the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and baggy with loss of sleep and he looked skinner than he'd ever been, and not in a good way, jumper hanging loosely over his body. Just four hours ago, John wouldn't have cared. Hell, he was ready to die – it hardly mattered what he looked like. But, damn, he looked like shit. John raked his hands through his hair in frustration, then groaned; he had Sherlock's blood on his hands.

There was no time to be disgusted. Moving quickly, John washed of his hands, splashed water over his face, breathed deeply. Right. He could not have a breakdown. This was really happening. Sherlock was alive. Alive. Fuck, he couldn't cry. Don't fucking cry. John grabbed a rag, soaked it in water, and forced himself not to run back to the living room.

Half of John expected Sherlock to have vanished when he returned. Just a hallucination, one final bit of proof that John was off his rocker. But Sherlock was there, just as he'd left him, and he looked up at John like he was expecting him to throttle him. John swallowed hard and sat beside him again.

"Sit still, okay?"

John somehow managed not to feel awkward about peeling the shirt the rest of the way off of Sherlock. Sherlock let him do so without complaint, eyes following John's movements until he tossed the ruined garments aside. "You're thinner than before," John said.

Sherlock shrugged. "So are you. All transport, you know that. What's your excuse?"

"Yes, well." _I was hoping I'd starve to death._ "Hold still," John said.

John pressed the rag to Sherlock's side, dabbing gently at the red stained skin. Sherlock gasped – _"Cold"_ – but remained still as instructed. John cleared the blood away as best he could given the circumstances, silently taking note of every unfamiliar scar. There were a lot of them, and almost all of them healed crudely; John did his best not to think about why that was.

He didn't take much notice of the hand not holding the rag until Sherlock reached out and snatched it, twining their fingers together. John stiffened for a moment, head jerking up to cast him a warning look only to falter.

John tried to be angry. He really did. He probably even _should_ have; he had good reason to. But looking up at Sherlock and seeing him staring back with wide, almost childish eyes, hand clasping his as if expecting it to be ripped away at any moment, John couldn't do it. All resentments fled to the backburner, overtaken by disbelief and relief and wonder and love.

Love?

Basically, John melted.

"Damn it, you are such a dick."

Sherlock's eyes widened marginally but John didn't notice. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him into an embrace. Which of them was trembling John couldn't tell, but it might have been both. It didn't matter. Sherlock returned the hug immediately, slinging his arms around John's middle and hugging him with all his might. John could have sobbed. Maybe he did, a little, but it was muffled by Sherlock's shoulder and if Sherlock minded he didn't show it.

"I missed you," Sherlock said. He clutched at the loose material of John's jumper, pressed his nose to John's neck, and John could feel Sherlock's breath shuddering against his skin. "I missed you so much, John."

John tightened his grip, squeezed his eyes shut. Sherlock still felt the same, all elbows and edges in his arms. "I thought you were dead," he said. "Three years, Sherlock. Three bloody years, I thought… I thought I'd never..." Just like that and if Sherlock didn't notice John was crying before he certainly did now.

"I know," Sherlock said. "I know you did. You had to. I'm sorry, but I had to. I had to make sure you were safe. I had to destroy Moriarty's web. It was the only way. But I'm… I'm sorry, John. It wasn't easy for me either, and I wish I could have thought of a better solution, but… I couldn't." Sherlock shuddered. "I never imagined it would affect you this way."

For a moment John wanted to make him more sorry. Tell him he was a heartless bastard for not considering that. Scream at him that he was a traitor for not trusting him not to blow his cover. Admit just how bad it had gotten, about rooftops lingered upon and one man games of Russian roulette constantly on standby. He wanted to hit him with everything, to force him to feel, experience that same agony John had every day for the last three years.

Instead, he tightened his grip and he said, "You were my whole life, Sherlock." And then, quieter, "You still are." Because it was true and, honestly, John was tired of suffering.

Sherlock didn't have anything to say to that. For once, there was nothing to say. Sherlock just pressed his face to the crook of John's neck, his lips brushing the base of John's throat. John choked as he felt warm wetness against his skin; tears. Crying. Sherlock was crying. Fuck. John shuddered and pulled Sherlock ever closer, forgetting momentarily to be careful for the stitches, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind, winding his arms tighter around John and wiggling until he was as snug against John as one could get to a person without actually crawling inside of them. They fell into silence like that, pressed close and trembling, and John took the time to trace his fingers down Sherlock's spine and confirm, over and over, the existence of Sherlock Holmes.

Eventually, when necks grew kinked and muscles became tired John pulled away. Sherlock mumbled a complaint but it was clear that he was tired, from blood loss or simply not sleeping for weeks John couldn't be sure. Still, he reached out and touched John's face and John froze, casting Sherlock a questioning look. Sherlock just smiled. "Do we have tea?" he asked.

John smiled because he really couldn't help it. "We have tea," he said.

"Oh, good. Green, please." Sherlock stretched and, with a small grin, leaned over to kiss John's cheek before laying back on the pillow again. "Do we still have those big, striped mugs?"

"Uh, yeah." John blinked and stood, touching his cheek. Had that just happened? Hell, had this whole _day_ just happened? He looked at Sherlock for confirmation, cheeks a surprised rosy hue, but the detective was busy reacquainting himself with the ceiling. Doing his best not to look too idiotic John hurried off to the kitchen to brew the tea and decided that, yeah, they would be okay. John might have to beat some explanations out of the mad man first, yes, but in the long run. They'd be okay. They'd go back to being just how they were, and they would be okay.

Well. A few more kisses might be nice, too.

* * *

><p><strong><em>More reviews would be amazing. <em>**


	55. Personal Space andother Useless Concepts

**A/N: SWEET. FUCKING. JESUS. It took me FOREVER to type up this long piece of shit. Good God. Just. Just take it. Just freaking take it, I don't have time for a legit A/N I'm going to see The Avengers in five minutes and asdffjaiwererawr**

**Word Count: 5,200+ or some crazy shit**

**Ship(s): John/Sherlock, small implications of Mycroft/Lestrade**

**Warning(s): Really, really crazy amounts of inappropriate content, which is sad, because I wrote this at school. BASICALLY: nudity, oral sex, cussing, all that jazz. Also this is basically crack so if they're OOC it was semi-intentional hopefully it's not too bad I don't know sorry for all the cussing I really have to leave like now help me**

* * *

><p><strong>Personal Space and Other Useless Concepts<strong>

* * *

><p>The first time it happened, John reacted the same way any man would. He screamed, fell over, and pulled a towel down to cover his important bits. Because that's what people do when their crazy flat mates yank the shower curtain open.<p>

"Sherlock, what the fuck?" John scrambled to simultaneously more fully cover himself and to get to his feet from the slippery shower floor. Sherlock just cast John a flat, irritated look.

"You are taking too long. We need to go to the Yard; double homicide, John!" Sherlock then proceeded to actually reach into the shower and pull John out by the arm. It was all John could do t keep the sopping towel in place around his waist, barely managing the step over the side of the tub.

"Sh-Sherlock! There's still soap in my hair!" John said, then cursed himself. As if that was the biggest problem. He tried again, blushing furiously: "You can't just step into another man's shower and—"

Sherlock grabbed a bowl, filled it with water, and dumped it on John's head.

John was startled to the point that he very nearly dropped the towel, staring drop jawed; Sherlock grinned. "See?" he said. "No more soap." And, because he could do little else, John threw his head back and laughed like a mad man.

* * *

><p>The next time it happened, John took it rather well, if he did say so himself.<p>

As soon as the curtain flew open John yanked a towel down and, instead of covering himself, slapped Sherlock across the face with it.

Sherlock stood there in numb shock, damp towel still slopped over his head, as John stepped out around him. John smirked and pulled a dry towel off the rack, using it to dry off his hair before wrapping it around his waist. "So," he said. "What's the hurry this time?"

Still donning a towel over his face, Sherlock turned stiffly to face John. "Girlfriend," he said.

"What?"

"Your girlfriend. Helen or something. The boring one. She's downstairs."

"Ah."

John had a bit of trouble explaining the incident to Hannah (her name was Hannah, not Helen), who'd heard the shower curtain open and jumped to all the right conclusions, but that was OK. She really was quite boring.

* * *

><p>The third time it happened was much worse, because John wasn't in the shower. He was in his room, behind a door he thought was locked, doing things that no roommate should ever witness. Ever. But Sherlock did witness. In fact, when he walked in he not only witnessed but he lingered, stood in the doorway with raised eyebrows and an almost quizzical expression on his face until John yanked his pants on and physically pushed him out the door. He even remained on the other side once the door had been slammed in his face, spouting inquiry.<p>

"How often do you do that, John?"

"Do you always do it on the bed?"

"Without pants?"

"Are you coming out soon, John?"

"Why are you so embarrassed? It's nothing I haven't seen before."

"Do you get erections often?"

John, once fully clothed, burst out of the room and stormed straight out of the apartment, red faced. After about six confused, vaguely apologetic text messages, however, he returned. He questioned his sanity but, God help him, he returned.

* * *

><p>After a while, John got used to this behavior. For a while, he took to ignoring it and hoping it would go away like a misbehaving canine hungry for attention; eventually, John just stopped being surprised when the behavior continued. There was no point to it.<p>

Around once a week Sherlock would burst into the bathroom (regardless of whether or not it was locked), sometimes while John was still showering, sometimes while he was getting dressed or shaving his face. He was almost never clothed. John would just roll his eyes and carry on with whatever he was doing, no longer bothering to cover himself. He never checked whether or not Sherlock was looking.

Sherlock never bothered to knock before wandering into John's room, either, sometimes even following John in after a shower or a long case to blab at him while he changed. More surprising, Sherlock had no problems stripping himself while he was at it, as he slept in boxers, tossing his dirty clothes to the corner of John's room and carrying on with his talking. He wasn't the type to waste time, after all. John got used to that, too. They had quite a few philosophical discussions standing about in nothing but pants, actually.

John _did_ continue to cover himself when Sherlock wandered in on certain… _extracurricular activities_, but he no longer screamed at him and (perhaps more concerning) he neglected to go flaccid at the interruption. In fact, if he were to be honest with himself, he got a bit bothered by Sherlock's invasive questions on the matter, ad not in the negative way either. John just sighed, pulled a blanket over himself, and asked if he had time to finish before they left for the adventure of the week. They almost always did, and Sherlock was almost always waiting outside the door afterwards, but John stopped thinking about that, too.

In fact, it got to the point where John didn't second guess it at all. He forgot it was weird. That it wasn't normal to feel completely comfortable about asking your best mate to undo the buttons on your shirt when your fingers were too numb or have your roommate sit on the edge of the tub and chit-chat about dead bodies while you had a bubble-bath. It was just something they did and, soon, it went both ways. John throwing Sherlock's shower open to yell at him about setting his jumper on fire or wandering into Sherlock's room uninvited to discuss cases. It was everyday 221B behavior and John thought nothing of it.

So he wasn't thinking about it when he had Greg over for a Star Trek marathon, either. Originally it had been a John-and-Sherlock-only thing (Sherlock had an unhealthy adoration for Spock, though he would not admit this) but Greg had been meaning to watch it for a while and, after a fair amount of nagging, Sherlock agreed to let the DI come along just this once. Gregory, toting a box of beer and feeling very much like One of the Gang, was grinning from ear to ear when John opened the door for him. John, donned in the usual jeans-and-ridiculous-jumper combo, smiled back.

"Greg! Hey, you're early – come in, come in, though, take a seat. I was just making popcorn." John slapped Gregory welcomingly before he shuffled out of the doorway and towards the kitchen, microwave beckoning. "Make yourself comfortable."

Greg hesitated for a moment before choosing a recliner at random. "Where's Sherlock?" he asked, settling into the plush leather seat. John strolled into the living room, toting a massive bowl of popcorn.

"Oh, he's still in the shower. You're early, like I said." John sat the bowl on Greg's lap. "I'll go get him," said John, jabbing his finger over his shoulder demonstratively. Greg nodded and watched John walk over to the bathroom door.

And open it. Which, okay, was a little weird, but Greg hadn't had a flat mate in a while so maybe

Greg nearly dropped the bowl of popcorn when he heard the shower curtain slide open.

Meanwhile, oblivious to the detective inspector flipping a shit in the other room, Sherlock wiped the suds aback away from his eyes to peer at John. "Oh, Lestrade showed, then?" he asked. Then, snarkily, "You're looking at my rear, John."

"You have really narrow hips," John replied, nonchalant. He rolled his shoulders back and stepped away, closing the curtain back. "Hurry up or we're starting without you."

"You wouldn't." Sherlock shoved a hand around the curtain, wiggling his fingers. "Hand me a towel, would you?"

John did, then headed back to the living room. Greg was looking pointedly in the opposite direction, red faced. John wondered if maybe Sherlock left gay porn in the DVD player again (he insisted it was vital for thinking like Jim Moriarty or something but John suspected Sherlock just liked mentally scarring him) but it was empty when he popped it open to put in Star Trek. _Maybe he's sexting Mycroft,_ John thought, smirking, then wondered where on Earth that thought had come from.

John settled into his own recliner, settling against the familiar Union Jack pillow. "Sherlock will be out soon," he said. "Have you watched this show before?"

"U-Uh… no." Lestrade looked at him, bewildered. Was John serious? Did he not realize…? He smiled, lopsided. "No, I haven't," he said, and he thought maybe he misunderstood. Maybe he mistook the things he heard.

Sherlock bumbled out to the living room after a few minutes of mindless rugby chatter and small talk, donned in a pair of blue sweatpants that barely fit over his knees and a t-shirt several sizes too big for him. It was strange for Greg, seeing the detective looking so casual – so bloody _human_ – but John didn't look surprised.

"You're wearing my clothes again," John noted. He didn't look surprised about that, either. Greg quickly shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth to trap the innuendos gathering within.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was this or the sheet. I'd hate to make Lestrade uncomfortable." Greg choked, immediately regretting the popcorn. He'd heard stories about the sheet. Many, many stories. John rolled his eyes and looked at Greg, smirking.

"Mister pompous over there doesn't own anything even remotely cozy. He goes on road trips in three piece suits."

Greg relaxed marginally. "You're telling me! We had a case in forty degree weather last year and he showed up in that giant coat of his. Didn't even take off that damn scarf."

"Sweating is for the weak of mind," Sherlock said sternly, "and you're in my seat. Up."

With Sherlock looming over him Greg very nearly did get up, pride or no pride, but John barked. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock cast John a slow, dry look. For a moment, Greg thought Sherlock might hit the doctor. But Sherlock just sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Bit not good?"

"Bit not good," John agreed. "Sit on the couch."

"The couch is insufficient, John! The view is far superior from the chairs. We watched Brokeback Mountain on the couch, I remember, and I'm almost certain I missed something important."

"Well, Gregory is the guest and I'm not sitting on the couch, either."

"Well shove over, then."

Gregory stared in blatant disbelief, unable to figure what surprised him more, Sherlock listening to instructions or that both John and Sherlock managed to fit into that chair together.

_I'm not his boyfriend._ John's voice echoed in the back of Greg's mind. Greg didn't believe him.

They watched Star Trek in relative, comfortable silence for a while, quiet broken only by Sherlock's occasional comments on unrealistic technology and plot inconsistencies (and occasionally mouthing the words to Spock's lines, but no one dared mention that), Greg asking questions on bits he didn't understand, or John muttering "gay" under his breath every time Spock and Kirk were in a scene together. By the end of the first episode each man had a drink in one hand (a beer for Greg and John, Sherlock some odd energy drink) and were feeling almost companionable.

At some point, however, when Greg stood to go for a second beer, Sherlock peered down at John and said, "Your pants are unbuttoned, you know."

"Ahw, what?" John groaned and fumbled the zipper of his jeans, struggling to do so one-handed without spilling his beer. Greg considered making a barn door comment, only too be cut off by Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and said, "I got it."

Greg looked on in stunned silence as Sherlock handed John his energy drink and swooped in, zipping John's jeans and, after a bit of tugging at the seams, clasping the button. John, unperturbed, raised his beer. "Thanks, 'Lock."

"Cheers." Sherlock snatched his drink back and took a swig. John rolled his eyes. Greg… more or less imploded.

"Alright, _now _it's just getting ridiculous! Are you two shagging or aren't you? Because I walked in here and from what I've seen, the only way you two could be more gay for each other was if you two were literally on that couch having sex with each other! Fucking homo explosion over here, I swear to God!"

Sherlock stared. John dropped his beer. On the screen, the Enterprise warped through space.

Finally, finally, Greg cleared his throat. "Uh. Sorry. That was… impolite of me."

"Greg… what…" John appeared to have short-circuited, flailing his hands in front of him and looking back and forth between Greg and Sherlock in a frantic, panicked manner. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed a comforting hand through John's hair, then turned to give the DI a look.

"Lestrade, your assumptions are far out of bounds. Despite the fact that we are comfortable with each other and have little to no problems with physical exposure, I assure you we are not sexually involved with one another," Sherlock said.

"I'm not gay," John said, far less collectively. "I'm not gay. I'm straight. I like ladies. I'm just comfortable with my body."

"And mine," Sherlock said. John nodded as if to say 'obviously.'

Greg cleared his throat; clearly this was a lost cause. Sherlock looked up at Greg then. "But while we're on the topic of raging homosexual behavior—" Sherlock flashed a mocking smile. "—are you shagging my brother?"

Gregory's eyes blew wide. "Fuck, what?"

John snorted. "Called it."

And Gregory did not come to Star Trek again after that. Sherlock was glad; pants really were a naissance.

* * *

><p>John tried not to worry about it, he really did. But Gregory's words stuck in his mind, echoing incessantly. <em>Homo explosion, I swear to God.<em> He wondered if this was how that Darren Criss guy felt like on a regular basis, remembered that he wasn't supposed to like Glee, and stomped the thought out.

It was these thoughts that Sherlock interrupted as he breezed into the room. "I'm bored and – oh, are you masturbating?"

John sighed and pulled his hand out of his pants. "I was going to, but I'm not feeling it."

"Pity. Maybe you're getting old. Make room."

Knowing what was coming John rolled to the opposite side edge of the bed to somewhat-successfully dodge Sherlock's bedbound belly-flop. Sherlock still managed to end up with an arm slung over John's shoulders before burying his face in a pillow. John glanced at Sherlock's arm and tired to feel bothered by the intimacy. All this effort accomplished was giving him a headache, though.

"You're thinking again," Sherlock said, voice muffled by the pillow. He squeezed John's side. "What are you thinking?"

"I dunno." John sighed and laced his fingers through Sherlock's hair, pausing to slide down the nape of his neck. Sherlock hummed appreciatively. "I don't know," he repeated, more slowly, "do you ever think we're too close?"

Sherlock's head popped up immediately and he propped himself up on the elbow not occupied around John's middle. He looked surprised. John's hand fell to rest on Sherlock's forearm as he spoe. "Too close? I thought you appreciated the familiarity, John," said Sherlock.

"No, no…" John sighed heavily, releasing his grip on Sherlock's arm to cross his arms behind his head. "That's not it. I just mean… I mean… the shower thing? And sharing a chair? Not to mention the masturbation questions. I don't' know."

"Ah." Sherlock sneered, but the expression was strained. "Is this about what Lestrade said the other day?" John bit his lip, guilty as charged. Sherlock peered at him. "I'm surprised at you, John. I thought you were a liberal thinker."

"What? No – no! I am. I just…" John waned. Sherlock sighed.

"John, two men can be comfortable around one another without being in a homosexual relationship." Sherlock's frown softened a bit when John's eyebrows scrunched. "I should know; I've done extensive research on the topic. And if anything, the fact that we're so uninhibited with one another just shows that we aren't sexually attracted to each other. There's no tension there." Even as Sherlock said this his fingers traced over John's chest; John squared his shoulders as the hand came to rest at the base of his neck. Sherlock sighed. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yeah. No. I mean – yeah." John laughed, abet a bit nervously peering up at Sherlock. When Sherlock grinned at him John found it easy to grin back. "Yeah," he repeated. "You're probably right. I mean, of course you are – I'm straight."

"And I'm asexual," Sherlock said, sounding relieved by this revelation.

"Totally incompatible, you and I."

"Absolutely."

And then John couldn't reply anymore because Sherlock's lips were on his and they were _soft_ and John found himself kissing back with more than a little enthusiasm, arms flinging themselves around Sherlock's neck. A deep, rumbling noise built in the back of Sherlock's throat, reverberating down John's throat, and a loud moan echoed through John's ears, though he couldn't say whose mouth it had escaped from.

Either way the noise brought John back to Earth and he pushed Sherlock away, gasping. "What the shit?"

Sherlock's face was flushed and though his expression was carefully blank his pupils were blown wide. "I could ask you the same thing!"

"What?" John cried. "You started it!"

"No I didn't!"

Their noses knocked together before they twisted into a better position, lips pressing flush together before John opened his mouth to admit Sherlock's tongue. It was definitely John who moaned this time as Sherlock's tongue swiped across his teeth. John groaned and slid his hands through Sherlock's hair and—

"John!" Sherlock cried, jerking away from the kiss. There was no disguise this time, full fledged, flustered disbelief painting his features. "What are you _doing_?"

"What!" John gawped, face scarlet. "You kissed me!"

"No I didn't! You kissed me."

"I'm not an idiot, Sherlock!"

"Oh, and I am? I think you have the two of us confused."

The two men stared at each other then, disbelieving. John found it suddenly very hard to look Sherlock in the eye, face going beet red. Sherlock slowly shifted from anxious to quizzical, peering at John lie a mystery unsolved. The awkward silence only lasted about a minute, but to John it felt like eons.

Finally, Sherlock spoke.

"You have an erection," he said.

John's eyes widened and he looked down at himself. Well, damn. "Uh… left over from earlier?" he reasoned hopefully.

Sherlock snorted. "Unlikely. It is clear who the culprit here is, John."

John's ears were on fire, accompanied by most of his head. It was a wonder he didn't explode. "W-Well! Well…" John hesitated and then, because boundaries were not something heavily established between them, he reached down between Sherlock's legs and he checked. "Aha!" he cried. "You do, too! You've proven nothing!" Sherlock's eyes blew wide, looking both humiliated and impressed.

"Do I really?"

Sherlock's mouth was rough against his but his lips were velvet soft. John wasn't sure when he'd cupped the side of Sherlock's face, or when Sherlock had gripped John's shoulders, or why it felt so good when Sherlock bit down on his bottom lip. Maybe he should have been more concerned with his other hand, though, as it was still cupping Sherlock's bulge. Or that Sherlock was grinding against his palm. Or that it was kind of awesome.

_Oh._

Sherlock tore away with a jolt, looking almost terrified, but he apparently could not control the moan that he released at the break of pressure despite his apparent bewilderment. John yanked both his hands off of Sherlock's body and clasped them at his chest, heart pounding in his ears.

"What…" John cleared his throat. "What was _that_?"

_Homo explosion_, the little Greg in his head answered.

Sherlock appeared incapable of speech himself. He crawled in numb silence to the opposite edge of the bed, panting all the while. Finally, after a long moment of staring down at himself, he managed, "Definitely you this time, John. I was trying to recall the last time I had a physical reaction to sexual stimuli at the time, I would not have moved."

_I was thinking about your dick_, John thought, but did not say; despite the fact that he had been groping said piece of anatomy just moments before, talking about it just seemed indecent. John swallowed. He could still taste Sherlock in his mouth, lingering there.

Fuck. So maybe it had been him.

But then Sherlock looked at him and said, "I might not be quite as adverse to sex as I hypothesized." And John said, "Oh." And, eventually, Sherlock slid off the bed and walked, lopsided, out of the room, because they just didn't _do_ awkward silence.

* * *

><p>The tension lasted for nearly a week, and it was making everybody feel really uncomfortable.<p>

Sally Donovan was the first victim of the "Sexual Doom Cloud" (a term coined by Lestrade, and proudly), as she was the first to greet them the next day at the latest crime scene. She barely got past her usual "Hey, freak…" when she had to do a double take. Sherlock was standing pointedly as far away from John as possible without it being ridiculous, and John looked like a freaking tomato every time he so much glanced in the detective's direction. Which was weird, because as far as she could tell the two were usually right in each other's space, staring into each other's eyes, having telepathy sex or something. Somehow, this made her more uncomfortable than the usual.

Anderson was quick to follow, though extremely slow to catch on until he spotted Sherlock actually full-on staring at John as the doctor bent to inspect the corpse-of-the-day. And not at his face, either. As if the tension might actually be palpable Anderson proceeded to choke on it, coughing and sputtering incoherently until John gently suggested that maybe he should go to the hospital.

Lestrade, humiliated by his display the previous weekend, did his best to ignore it, only to end up sharing an unfortunate taxi with them. A very long, traffic inhibited taxi. And they stuck him in the middle. Between them. There was nothing more to say on the matter except that Lestrade would be taking a week of leave to recover.

Molly got the worst of it, poor dear, what with her womanly intuition and all. Well, that, and Sherlock loved to spout off all kinds of flamboyant, brilliant nonsense in the morgue and Captain Obvious Watson managed to observe this for all of two seconds before having to cross his legs.

Mrs. Hudson, wise woman that she was, took one step into 221B before throwing her hands up, turning on her heel, and slamming the door behind her. Her heart just couldn't take that sort of thing anymore.

* * *

><p>The next time it happened, John wasn't thinking.<p>

Against his better judgment he'd allowed Sarah to set him up on a blind date with her friend. Her name had been Pamela and she had all the sexual appear of a bale of hay. It wasn't that she was unattractive or even unintelligent by any means. She just didn't do it for John. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make himself care about anything she was doing, even when that something she was doing involved trying to feel him up in the back of a taxi. John found himself having his very first out of body experience, which involved capturing her hand, pulling it away from his crotch, patting her shoulder, and telling her Not Tonight. He hadn't even bothered to get her number.

John came home fuming, frustrated in more ways than one, and in dire need of a shower.

He really couldn't be blamed for it. It was habit now, a Baker Street tradition of sorts, and John's only thought process was that he felt really, really unsettled and wanted the shower as soon as possible. It was only natural that he swooped into the bathroom without knocking, shouted, "'Lock!" and popped his head in inside the curtain to grin sarcastically at the man inside. "Guess who's blind date went fucking horrible?"

Sherlock yelped, the nerve of him, and very nearly fell on his butt in his scramble to cover his important bits. Bits that, after a moment, John realized had been quite busy a few moments before.

"Oh," John said. "I thought. I mean I thought, that you didn't do… that."

Sherlock grimaced. He didn't have a towel and now suffered through the use of only his hands for cover (wildly insufficient). "I _don't_," Sherlock hissed, humiliation evident in his tone. "This is an… anomaly."

"Ah." John's cheeks flushed scarlet, but he didn't move. "Well, uh, sorry for interrupting you there, but I'm going to need a shower soon. I'm bloody exhausted."

Sherlock frowned a little. Then, "You're staring."

Oh. John flushed – he _was_ staring, blatantly so, eyes zeroed in on Sherlock's bare form, on the shower water running between his fingers, spilling down his thighs, dripping along his narrow hips and tracing long, bony legs. He was less surprised than he should have been to find that he couldn't look away.

Finally, Sherlock seemed to regain his composure (and his indifference) and let his hands drop to his sides. John, startled by the sudden uninhibited view, had his gaze thrown upwards to Sherlock's face. The man in question was frowning deeply.

"Right, now," said Sherlock. "This is your fault."

John's mouth was parched. "Is it?"

"Yes. You've put all numbers of unnecessary connotations to our previous bodily comfort and now I cannot get you out of my head. I have pornographic imagery in the mind palace, John." Sherlock pointed (quite dramatically) to his nether region. "This is your fault," he repeated, and he gave John an expectant look. John swallowed hard.

"Um… okay. And you want me to do… what, exactly?"

Sherlock blinked. "Fix it."

John guffawed, but Sherlock looked dead serious. Well, as dead serious as a man could be with water dripping down his nose. John's eyebrows flew skyward. "What! Why should I?"

Sherlock gave John a long suffering look before leaning back against the shower wall, spreading his legs, and announcing, "Because it is your duty, Captain."

John did the only sensible thing.

He fixed it.

* * *

><p>"Considering all accumulated data, it is at least ninety-seven percent certain that I have feelings for you that extent past platonic friendship."<p>

John rolled his head around languidly to peer up at Sherlock. They were slouched together on the shower floor, Sherlock just as nude as he'd began (very) and staring at his hand (no longer sticky), John wearing only a t-shirt (plastered to his skin) and a pair of crumpled boxer shorts (wet, pulled down to his ankles), and both of them floating in post-coital bliss and the numb shock of getting off with one's closest friend.

"You're an idiot," John said. Sherlock made a face but John curled his arm around his waist, pulling him closer. He twisted to kiss Sherlock's neck, smiling. "And thank you, I think."

"Don't thank me," Sherlock grumbled, relaxing in John's grasp. "You're a menace."

"Hey! Careful what you call the guy who still has the taste of your spunk in his mouth, okay?" John still couldn't quite comprehend that he'd done that, either, or even that he'd figured out _how_. He waited for it to bother him, and would have been kept waiting until the end of days had Sherlock not kissed his neck, erasing the thought from his mind. John smiled. "So," he said, "What now?"

"Now?" Sherlock hummed. "Well, I could go for some tea. Earl gray would be nice."

John snorted. "I meant _us_, moron."

"Ah. Of course." Sherlock looked almost smug for a moment before looking bored again. "_This_ conversation. Must we have it? I really would like some tea."

"I mean," John said, lowering his voice, "that if I see you doing this with anybody else I'll punch you in the gizzard." John tightened his grip – was that right? Must have been, because Sherlock looked pleasantly surprised.

"Oh." Sherlock smiled blankly. "I don't have a gizzard, John. I am not a bird of prey." John rolled his eyes, waited; Sherlock sighed and pressed his nose to John's temple. "You mean that you want this to continue exclusively."

John smiled. That was definitely right. "Yes."

"For how long?"

John blinked, because what kind of question was that? Sherlock snorted.

"I'll give you a hint, John," he whispered. "The correct answer is 'indefinitely.'"

But John said, "Forever," and that was alright too.

* * *

><p>The next morning Mrs. Hudson came over with a platter of Congratulations cookies, a cheerful, "Praise the merciful lord <em>that's<em> finally over!" and a quick exit.

Sherlock was smug. John was crimson. They'd been quite a bit louder than they'd originally thought. But, on a completely irrelevant note: the cookies? Delicious.

* * *

><p><strong>I can't write endings i don't care please review AVENGERS AWAYYyYyyasdfjkl<strong>


	56. Of Stars and Mixed Signals

**A/N: So Mycroft can't fit into his jeans anymore.  
>Word Count: 2,000-something<br>Ship(s): Sherlock/John  
>Warning(s): Unrequited love angst and what is more or less angsty-teenager!Sherlock.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Of Stars and Mixed Signals<strong>

* * *

><p>Being in love with John Watson, if you happened to be Sherlock Holmes, was pure torture. It wasn't that John was cruel or even unaffectionate. In fact it was quite the opposite. John was kind, patient, caring, affectionate, and gave out compliments like candy at a parade. He was sharp and brave, sturdy and reliable, helpful and generous, fun and adventurous, protective and loyal, warm and cuddly. And it was a problem.<p>

Generally speaking, John Watson was the king of mixed signals.

Some days, Sherlock was sure that John was in love with him. He would sit too close to him on the couch while they watched Star Trek or rest his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Or, some days, he would let Sherlock lay his head on his lap and toy with his curls while they waited out one of his crash-and-burns.

But other days Sherlock would scoot closer to him in the back of a cab or rest a hand on John's back at the Yard and John would stiffen and brush him off or just act so painfully awkward that Sherlock would back off on his own. And then Sherlock would be sure that John didn't even want be near him, much less love him.

Some days, John would meet Sherlock's eyes from across the room or right up beside him, peer straight into Sherlock's soul right there in public. And Sherlock would peer back and think that John was beautiful, wonder if John might think he was, too.

Others, John would barely even look at him, and Sherlock would wonder what was so interesting over his shoulder.

Some days, John would drop everything for Sherlock, leave work or sometimes even dates to go sprinting through the city with him or sort through piles of evidence or even just be the wall that Sherlock bounced ideas off of. John wouldn't always do ti with a smile, but even when he acted irritated there would be a soft edge, fond amusement gleaming in his eyes or a teasing tone to his rants. If it was up to Sherlock, John would always be by his side like this, just like this until they were old and gray.

But other times John would be with a Katy or a Mary or a Jane and leave Sherlock to suffer loneliness without a second thought. John would act irritated more and more and sometimes even when John was right beside Sherlock his mind would be elsewhere, caught in a daydream that certainly had nothing to do with cold gray-blue eyes and wild curls.

Some days, John would be bursting with pride and affections in every way possible, calling Sherlock amazing and brilliant and listening to every deduction he made like it was the Word of God, or defending Sherlock's honor against insults with dark glares and defensive shifts towards his side. "Like a doting wife," Lestrade joked once, and even though Sherlock just rolled his eyes at the time he was bursting with side at the glory of the mere thought. John also protected Sherlock from himself. Some days Sherlock would retreat into himself in agony he denied and John would appear to pull him out of it, with gentle words or a rare, unexpected hug that Sherlock pretends to be irritated with but truly locks the embrace away in the safest part of his mind palace, where it can't hurt anyone but him and even then it feels so sweet.

Other days, John's words are biting and cruel. It's rare, hearing things from John, his best friend (_only friend_) but when words like "freak" or "asshole" or "machine" come tumbling from John's lips it slices through every barrier Sherlock so carefully constructed, ruthless in its arc. He tries not to let it – it's not as if Sherlock doesn't hear these things all the time – but against John he is defenseless. Some days, Sherlock would retreat into himself in agony he denied and John would be the one who put him there in the first place.

Some days John would scare the shit out of Sherlock, because over and over John proved that he would kill and die for him without a second thought. Rushing into danger, guns blazing; offering up his life with a bomb strapped to his chest; tackling armed criminals that get just a little too close. Days like this, Sherlock is absolutely certain that John is in love with him, because Sherlock is in love with John and he'd do the same thing for him.

Others, John would mutter about being middle aged and the woes of not having a wife, maybe never having kids. He'd lament his fears of never settling down and having that domestic fairytale life he'd always been told he'd have. And he would look at Sherlock as if he might understand, might sympathize, and Sherlock never could. Settling down with a woman, or a man for that matter, simply never occurred to Sherlock. At least, not until John. Often, far more often than Sherlock ever expected to, Sherlock would wonder if maybe John could want that with him. To move to the country and get married, adopt a child and maybe a dog. Sherlock could raise honeybees and take cases on weekends John would work at a surgery or whatever he wanted to do. And maybe John would call him "sweetie" or "love" and kiss his cheek on his way out to work and Sherlock would spend the day doing experiments in the garage and go on adventures with Hamish – they'd name their son Hamish, Sherlock had already decided – even though John would surely scold them both for doing such dangerous things Sherlock would take good care of him. And every night they'd curl up together in their bed and even when they were old and gray and their minds and bodies started to go bad they'd be happy, so happy, because they would have each other. And… the farther Sherlock got into this fantasy the more absurd it sounded, though, because John Watson still writes love poetry to dull girls with pretty lips who don't leave heads in fridges and Sherlock would really be a horrible husband, anyway.

It's frustrating, not knowing things. Sherlock never claimed to have infinite knowledge, of course, but he likes to know everything about the things he deems "important," and John has become not only an important part of his life but a crucial one. Not knowing the nature of John's feelings for him was constantly bothersome, hanging over him like a dubious fog. Typically Sherlock doesn't have a problem with judging people's opinions of each other – he had no trouble with Irene, pinning her love for him easily like a lazy butterfly to a cork board, ripping past her defenses with hardly a quiver of struggle. And _she'd_ been truly something, the Woman who beat him once and charmed him twice – clever, brilliant even. Although Sherlock considers John incredible in many ways, never dull despite his domesticity, there is no air of mystery to him. Everything else about John Sherlock reads like an open book – what he's thinking, where he's been, how he feels about any given topic. Those things that Sherlock cannot read off of him right away John has few issues revealing anyway, never having been an especially guarded person nor one that is hard to trick.

So why this, then? Why is it this that eludes him?

It's these thoughts that he tries and fails to push aside, haunting him from the backburner, pestering him at every free moment. Somewhere in Sherlock there's a little boy with a daisy in his hand, plucking petals off one by one. _He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not…_

It's this that so plagues him when he goes for a walk this afternoon, John hot on his heels. Today might've been a He Loves Me day, for all the devoted time-spending they've been doing, going to a movie and dinner at Angelo's and now this midnight stroll through the city, but Sherlock knows better tonight. John just broke up with one of his women, a writer named Alexandra or something who, although John had found her a little annoying and had no long term plans with, had enjoyed the sex with very much and was sad to see her go. That was why he was clingy today, working on building his self-esteem up again. Pathetic, then, that Sherlock still felt that niggle of joy to hear John's footsteps padding faithfully after him.

"Where are we going?" John asks, breaking Sherlock out of his thoughts. Sherlock just shrugs, not looking at him. No point in it, since if he looks at John it might break his heart a little more, since judging by the tone of John's voice he's got that big, ridiculous smile on his face again. And, anyway, it's this ignorance that makes John take his hand, squeeze. "You alright, 'Lock? You seem out of it."

Sherlock _is_ out of it. And maybe that's it. Maybe John's driving him truly mad and that's why he can't figure out the solution to this problem. Sherlock risks a glance. John is, in fact, smiling, eyebrow quirked. Sherlock looks away with a jerk. _Damn it._ No one smiles at Sherlock like that, like he's something special and fond and not just a burden to be dealt with for the sake of the greater good. But then, John smiles like that for a lot of people, doesn't he?  
>Has John had a best friend before? Did he hold their hand?<p>

"Sherlock?" John tugs on Sherlock's hand again, worried. Sherlock turns to him and finds the smile gone, replaced by a puzzled frown. Worried. Sherlock forces himself to smile.

"I'm fine."

They walk a little longer, still holding hands, and Sherlock lets himself relax a little. John is warm and big around his and the stars are so bright tonight, even through the smog of London air. Sherlock lets himself feel light and happy for a moment, tilting his head heavenward and tightening his grasp on John's hand. It occurs to him that, if anyone cared to look their way, they'd assume they were just another gay couple walking down the street after a date, enjoying each other's company. In love. But then John seems to have similar thoughts and, with one more gentle (apologetic?) squeeze he drops his hand. "We could get coffee," he says.

"We could," Sherlock replies, glancing at his abandoned hand.

"Do you want to?"

"Do you?"

"Not really."

"Okay."

John smiles at him again and Sherlock really doesn't know what that says. That fond light in his eyes – is that telling? The curve of his lips, bare hint of white teeth – fondness, kindness, comfort, all real, but why?

Eventually they find a bench. They weren't looking for a bench but still they find one and they settle beside each other. John sits first, on one end, but Sherlock is feeling helpless today and he sits in the middle, closer to John than necessary but not so much that John might push him away or give him that look.

The realization comes abruptly, as realizations do. John starts speaking about something (Doctor Who, probably) but Sherlock isn't listening anymore, because it occurs to him what all of this means. He can read John like a book, knows his boundaries and his desires and his talents and his opinions. Sherlock could know, if he tried, about this. He could finish with the daisies, stop picking new ones and find a real answer, allow himself to pluck that last petal and stop dwelling on the what-ifs. It wouldn't be difficult, in theory. Nothing about John Watson is difficult – he's a reflector of light, soft and easy with casual brilliance, and he's Sherlock's best friend. Always there, never wavering, always honest and loyal. Sherlock wouldn't even have to deduce it. If he asked John what his feelings were, truly enacted a heart-to-heart with him, John would tell him.

The problem was bias.

With most of the puzzles Sherlock faces, he doesn't particularly care what the result turns out to be. He's not in it for money or fame, and although Sherlock prefers his findings to be exciting or clever there would be no point in trying to make the solutions fit his preferences. However, with John, it's different. For once in his life Sherlock is desperate for his results to lean in one particular direction, for a revelation of love requited. Sherlock wants to have that with John, to love and cradle, grow oldl and gray, to die knowing there was someone out there that would think of him, too.

Sherlock could find the answer, but he wouldn't.

"You're right," John says, eyes trained heavenward. "It is beautiful." Then he tilts his head and looks straight at Sherlock and for a moment Sherlock can almost pretend he's talking about him and not the bright, irrelevant blips lighting up the sky.

Sherlock smiles a bit but says nothing, tearing his gaze away and looking back up to the sky himself. He waits, patiently, for John's eyes to leave him again and, eventually, they do.

* * *

><p><em><strong>If I don't update soon, blame Omegle RPs and the Avengers fandom. They've taken over my life simultaneously. <strong>_


End file.
